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THE MEMORY BOOK 




'-' i"?, 



>)>,., 



Nellie Kleen. 



,/ 






Copyright, 1914 

by the 

Illinois Woman's Press Association 

Chicago 



NOV 27 1914 

©CI.A387703 



Foreword 

CHE Memory Book is finished and what shall I say as a 
foreword? 

Suggestions come in battalions, and verily the mem- 
ories of "ye olden times" should be most precious to all who 
con its pages. 

The marvel of memory ?nakes of life the real high and holy 
thing it is — a bond between the past and present — the prelude 
of the future. Memory is that function of the brain which is 
most essential in the education and development of humanity. 
Without memory reasoning would fail, since one must remem- 
ber premises in order to discuss rationally any grave theme of 
business, politics, home, literature. Aye! even happiness will 
be nil if one remembers not love. 

Maeterlinck denies the immortality of memory, depending, 
as it does, for expression upon the brain function — the brain 
necessarily dying with the rest of the body. Hence, ivhile grant- 
ing the immortality of the soul, he denies that ice shall knoiv 
each other ivhen spirit reveals itself to spirit. 

Those of us ivith old-fashioned church training ask such 
immortality as shall conduce to the growth of the individual 
soul, which, we believe, will mean happiness. Verily such de- 
velopment cannot continue without the consciousness of kin- 
ship of soul and the reneical of the loves of this life. This, 
memory alone can give. 

Grave thoughts hark back to the storehouse of Illinois 
Woman's Press Association memories, and over the bridge from 
the then of eighteen eighty-six to the now of nineteen fourteen 
come pleasant recollections of the long ago, and I am glad to 
realize that the founders of the Illinois Woman's Press Associa- 
tion, which nozv is a power in the state, were women of force — 
of gracious bearing — of fine culture and refinement — of broad 
outlook on human affairs. 

Over the Bridge of Memories come trooping a host of 
dear and fatniliar figures; Mrs. Conant, daring in enterprise 
and earnest of purpose, though frail of physique, who led in 
the establishment of our organization; Frances Willard and 
Mary Allen West, devotees of a noble cause, who spent brain 
and physical force for the promotion of temperance ; Dr. Steven- 
son, loyal, scholarly, and clever with the pen; Eliza Bowman, 
devoted altruist, who gave of her mother-love to the homeless 
uaifs of the street; Rosa Miller Avery, earnest worker for the 
ballot for ivomen before the idea had become quite the fashion; 
Mrs. Robert C. Clowry. icho believed in woman's suffrage, and 



was, it is said, the first Afnerican wo /nan to ivrite and publish 
an opera. 

I will say no more, yet I trow all members of the Illinois 
Woman's Press Association can recall a long list of earnest, 
cultivated women who have made the Association what it is, 
and have made the world better for their being in it. 

There is a hidden chamber in each heart where memory 
keeps its precious things, and sometimes in the quiet eventime, I 
pray my readers steal away for a little ivhile and call up the 
memories of Auld Lang Syne. 

We women of the Press Association are friends with all 
which that name i?nplies. We do not treat our friendship 
"daintily," but with courage — we have truth to the other. We 
even think aloud in our tneetings, ready to share the give and 
take of disputation — seasoned as it always is with generous 
appreciation — and truly out of these experiences of life do 
grow the characters which are forceful factors in civic and 
literary life! 

From this atmosphere we are sending out our book. The 
"leif motif" of the scheme is love. The variations are made 
according to the trend of individual effort, this scheme being 
an outgroivth of the spirit ivhich dominated the formation of 
the organization. 

Each for all and all for each is the thought of the mem- 
bers, and our hope is that The Memory Book may reach the 
inner chamber of many hearts. 

An old Spanish proverb runs in this wise: "Let Providence 
manage never so fairly, someone is displeased." Job in his pro- 
test against the unwisdom of his sympathizing friends, ivho so 
sorely tried his soul, exclaimed at the end of his patience, "Oh! 
that mine adversary zvould write a book.'" Can one guess the 
tone of his contemplated review? What a commentary upon 
human nature! Even Providence does not go unchallenged! 

What an outlook for the daring members of the Illinois 
Woman's Press Association! 

Julia Holmes Smith, M. D. 



nyM^M^^MgM^Mg^MgjM^Mfig g 




9 PitM of ^onianliooii 

By Belie Squire 

)S Woman my dignity is supreme, for I 
am sculptress of the race, the architect 
of humanity. My body is the Temple, 
the Holy of Holies, wherein are fash- 
ioned into indelible shape, for weal or 
woe, the children who are to come. 
' Therefore must 1 keep my temple pure 
and clean, nor ever let it be defiled by thought or word 
or deed, for within me lies, mayhap, the destiny of 
millions yet unborn. 

At its peril will the race defile me, stunt me, hinder me 
in my high calling, for outraged Nature will herself 
avenge my wrong, and demand in full the peneJty for 
my hurt. I can not fall alone, the race will suffer with 
me, for its destiny is bound up within mine own. 1 am 
indeed supreme, for I am a Woman ! 
My part is difficult, but I will not flinch. I must be 
strong as the oak on the bleakest hill, and tender and 
sweet and pure as the flower that blooms in the vjilley 
below Sfe a 

I cim the citadel that must never capitulate, nor must 1 
be taken unawzu-es. Until Death o'ercomes me 1 must 
be mistress of myself, for 1 am Woman and must be 
free, or the race •will be carried into that captivity from 
which there is no return. 

Being Woman, a vital part of Humanity itself, 1 must 
demand and use, if need be, every human right that 
belongs to Humanity, be it civil, moral, industrial or 
political, for I am hzJf the race. 1 am Woman. For Free- 
dom's sake 1 must be free, for 1 am sculptress, [ 
architect of Humanity, its citadel, its oak, its bios- •!> 
som. I am Woman, Mother and Molder of the Race ! vS' 












L 



i| 



I 



Noblesse Oblige 

IF I am weak and you are strong 
Why then, why then 
To you the braver deeds belong. 
And so again, 
If you have gifts and I have none, 
If I have shade and you have sun, 

'Tis yours with freer hand to give, 
'Tis yours with truer grace to live. 
Than I who giftless, sunless, stand, 
With barren life and hand. 

We do not ask the little brook 

To turn the wheel; 
Unto the larger stream we look. 

The strength of steel 
We do not ask from silken band, 
Nor heart of oak from willow wand ; 
We do not ask the wren to go 
Up to the heights the eagles know; 
Nor yet expect the lark's clear note, 
From out the dove's dumb throat. 

'Tis wisdom's law, the perfect code. 

By love inspired ; 
Of him on whom much is bestowed. 

Is much required; 
The tuneful throat is bid to sing, 
The oak must reign the forest's king, 

The rushing stream the wheel must move, 
The tempered steel its strength must prove, 
'Tis given unto the eagle's eyes 
To face the mid-day skies. 

Carlotta Perrv 



It Will Be Better Tomorrow 

IT IS not wise to make a magnet of one's thoughts to 
attract trouble. Let us anticipate happiness. Let us 
expect success. Let us believe that all the good things 
which we hope for and pray for and work for have started 
our way. They may be some time in coming, and perhaps 
they will not come in exactly the manner that we had mapped 
out, but if we keep our courage and do our duty our hopes 
will be realized. 

Thoughts are vital. We help or hinder our purposes by 
the quality of the thought which we bring to our daily task. 
We are what we think we are. We can accomplish just what 
we think we can. If we honestly believe we cannot accomplish 
a certain task we may as well give it up while that belief lasts. 

The remedy is to get out of such a belief. Get out of the 
atmosphere of doubt and distrust. Get into the current of 
Faith. Adopt the creed of Courage and Good Cheer. 

"It will be better tomorrow," was the motto of a brave 
little woman who waited through many tomorrows for the 
good fortune that finally came ; and it is a good motto for 
all of us. 

Optimism is a powerful lever for lifting a trouble. The 
woman who can keep a hopeful view and a smiling face while 
she copes with a difficulty has conquered it already. 

The successful people are those who have learned the art 
of transforming difficulties into working power. The happy 
people are those who have learned that the joy of living comes 
from trying to make others happy. Neither success nor happi- 
ness ever comes from anticipating trouble. 

Mate Palmer. 




Some Definitions 

GOD— 

God to each person is what he, in his inmost soul, 
feels that he himself should be. To be "Godlike" is par- 
tially to attain that ideal. 

PRAYER— 

Prayer is the ladder on which the human soul exalts 
itself to view the Infinite. 

LOVE— 

"Greater love hath no man than this that a man lay 
down his life for his friends." How many among us 
would stand that test? 

FRIENDS— 

We know not who they are until their friendship is 
tested. Though many are called few are chosen. 

MEMORY— 

A faculty that ofttimes brings more pain than pleas- 
ure; yet who would be without it? 

Caroline A. Huling. 



a>e 



After Glow 

XNTO the maze and darkness of my life — you came! 
Straightway the sun arose and glorified the way. 
Now you are gone — I journey faltering as before, 
But through the darkness shines the radiance of the vanished 

day. 

Page Waller Eaton. 



MY FAIRYLAND 



CARO SENOUR 



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1. Mv Fair - y-land, My Fair - y-land, 

2 My Fair - y-land, My Fair - y-Und, 

3! My Fair - y-land, My Fair - y-land, 

4. My Fair - y-land. My Fair - y-land, 



I lore the days of Fair 

I lovethedaysof Fi-ir ^ , 

llove the days of Fair - y-land. Where 

I l<*vetheday8of Fair - y-land. The 



y-land,Where 
y-land, Where 




wea -ry heads ne'er toss a-round.And tir - ed feet can al-waysbonndJMiere merry voices 
fa ir-ies dance and sing for me, And can -dy grows on ev-ry treeiWherebirdsdreas in their 
chil-dren romp and kit -tens play, And dog-giesdanceanddol-liesgay.Join wththe tair-ies 
train leaves at the tin.e,y(m AnouvWhengownsandnightc^sare ^^gwJ'Wherf'choochco whistles 




form a baud, In ray 
col -ors grand, In my 
hand in hand, .In my 
blow,youlaud In my 



sweet home, 
sweet home, 
sweet home, 
sweet home. 



my Fair 
my Fair 
my Fair 
my Fair 



y-land. 
y-land. 
y- land, 
y-land. 




Mirandy on Fame 

Sou ain't got 'bout a dollar an' a half layin' around 
loose dat you could advance me on nex' week's washin' ?" 
inquired Mirandy, with a shamed-faced air. 

"I hates to horror, for hit sho'ly does make you tired to have 
to work for money dat you done already spent, but whut wid 
de Sons of Zion presentin' Ike wid a lovin' cup, and Thomas 
Jefferson bein' 'lected de President of de Black and Tan Foot- 
ball Club, an' Ma'y Jane bein' pinted de Queen of Sheba at de 
Sunday School blowout de famb'ly puss look lak a elephant 
done trod on hit. 

"Yassum, we all is gittin' famous, an' fame suttinly do come 
high. I done took notice befo' dis dat all dem folks whut is 
got dey statues an' dey pictures up in de parks an' de public 
places has got a mighty lean an' hungry 'pearance, an' I knows 
de reason now dat dey is so peeked-lookin' — dey had to spend 
so much money on dey halos dat dey didn't have no change 
left to buy corn beef an' cabbage. 

"Yassum, hit sho'ly am expensive to be distinctious, an' ef 
dere hadn't been one po', humble, ordinary woman in our house 
to keep de pot a bilin' I 'specks I could name de name of two 
favorite sons an' a daughter dat was mighty puffed up wid 
pride, but dat wouldn't a had nothin' else to stay deir stomachs 
on but compliments. 

"An' compliments is lak dried apples — dey is sweet, an' 
tasty, an' dey swells you all up, but dey is all wind — all wind. 
Dey don't stand by lak pork chops. 

"Dey got to live up to deir reputation, an' hit costs mo' to 
support a reputation dan hit does a pair of twins. 

"Now dere's Ike. Ike is de most popularest man in de 
church, an' de union, an' whenever anybody comes along an' 
starts up a new 'sciety hits foreordained an' predestinated, as 
Brer Jenkins would say, dat Ike is gwine to be 'lected wid a 
risin' vote to be de president, or de secretary, or de cheerman 
of de finance committee, or somethin' or nother dats got a 
fourteen hour day wuk in hit an' no pay. 

"Cose hit seems mighty grand to be dat prominent, an' ev'y 
time dey saddles him wid a new honor, an' mo' wuk, Ike 
comes home wid his chest stickin' out so far dat he busts his 
shirt buttons off, an' I goes out de next mawnin' an' hunts up 
another job of washin'. 

"Yassum, dere used to be some interest in de days when Ike 
was onknown, in lookin' farward to Saturday night when he 



got his pay envelope, but now by de time he gits through 
headin' de contribution list becaze he is de treasurer, an' losin' 
a day's wuk becaze, bein' de president of de organization, he 
has to 'tend de funerals, an' ride wid de mourners when a 
member dies, dere ain't enough left to make it wuth de trouble 
to go through his pocket arfter he goes to sleep. 

"You see hit was lak dis — de odder night Ike come home 
a-grinnin' from year to year, an' wid a mighty uplifted look 
on his face, an' he says to me as I was a gittin' supper: 

" 'Mirandy, dis am a proud day for you, an' you ought to 
be a thankful woman dat you married lak you did.' 

" 'Ef I is ever out-married myself, I ain't never found hit 
out,' 'sponds I, for it don't do to let on to your husband dat 
you think too well of him. Nawn, hit makes him too uppity. 
'But whuts de matter now?' I axes. 

" 'De Sons of Zion,' says Ike, a-puffin' hisself up, 'is gwinc 
to present me wid a lovin' cup as a slight testimonial of deir 
esteem, an' of de noble an' conscientious way in which I is 
done my duty.' 

" 'Humph,' says I ; 'dey gives you de mug, but I lay we'se 
got to fill hit.' 

" 'Of course,' 'spons Ike in a high an' mighty tone, 'we can 
do no less to show our appreciation of de honor dat is been 
done me.' 

"Well, dat night a committee of de brethren come 'round 
to present de lovin' cup. 

"Yassum, an' befo' dat night was over dat chany mug dat 
you could a bought in de store for thirty-five cents, done cost 
us three dollars an' fifty cents in beer, let lone de war an' 
tar on de furniture dat come arfter de lovin' cup is been around 
'bout six times, an' two of de brethren got mixed up in a 
little argyment 'bout whether Ike was a greater man dan 
Napoleon. 

"Yassum, glory suttinly does come high. Fame is somethin' 
dat you spend your life wurkin' for — an' den hit lands you in 
de po' house." 

Dorothv Dix. 




A Memory Page 




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Rosemary for Remembrance 

^y^HO does not know the power of fragrance to bring back 
vj ^y or awaken memories of the past? 

How subtle the perfume of the lilac, the wild rose, 
the primrose of the English hedgerow, and the honeysuckle 
over the cottage door! 

What memories cling and cluster around them when, after 
a long interval of time, their delicate odor is wafted to us! 

Rosemary for remembrance! Just a whiff is enough to 
carry us back to scenes and times long since past. Do we 
forget? Are our dear ones lost to us? No, we do not forget 
and our friends are with us in memory. The noble, lovable 
women we have known, during the lifetime of the I. W. P. A. 
come out from the mists which have obscured them, and we, 
for a moment, behold them more lovely and lovable than when 
we beheld them in the flesh. 

A Shakespeare garden is a real, tangible thing; in it are 
still planted the various herbs mentioned in the dramas. In 
memory's garden we find the sweet smelling carnation which 
holds and occupies a sunny place, and its perfume brings to us 
tender thoughts of days long since past, of noble deeds well 
done. Let us be grateful for every sweet flower that blooms 
and cultivate Rosemary for Remembrance. 

Marv A. Ahrens. 



ate 



To My Mother 

IF WE can bring to the lives of our friends 
but a meagre portion of the joy and de- 
votion showered upon us by our parents, 
we shall not have lived in vain. 

Rose D. Meyer. 



i6 



Color 

eOD'S truth may fall upon our souls, just as a shaft 
of light, 
Whose oft-seen dazzling radiance escapes our sight 
Until a prism severs it and lo! a heavenly rainbow^ shade — 
And through that melody of color there's a misty image 
made. 

Then one espies some red and cries: "I see the Light! 

Red heralds courage, force, and physical delight! 
Find fun in Now and fume not at Tomorrow's flight, 

Just be a Hedonist and laugh at any plight!" 

Another yellow sees; its beams bewitch his eye, 
To him it means "There is but Soul and Soul is I. 

There is no red, there is no blue, for Soul embraces all; 

God's Truth in yellow gleams. Oh! heed the Spirit's call!" 

A third from out the darkness calls: "I have found blue, 
The color of the Intellect, of Science, of the True. 

There is but Mind. The soul's a myth, for blue means Mind!" 
Thus cults begin for those who think they know and are 
so blind. 

A fourth's enchanted by the rainbow's subtle call, 

And gazes like a Hindoo at a crystal ball. 
Until, forsooth, he purple finds, and is enwrapped in awe; 

And he a mystic is, and cobwebs paths to God's Truth-law. 

Yet that pure shaft of Light illumes the world and gives it life, 
While our poor vision sees but green or gray and makes no 
strife 

For ultra-violet and infra-red beyond the spectrum's scope; 
But live content to see one tint and leave the rest to Hope. 

God grant our race may gain the virile force that is the red. 
The blue-flamed torch of thought by which we may be led, 
The inspiration of the Radiance so yellow bright, 

And Love that blendeth all, and grows to know the Perfect 
Light. 

Myrtle Dean Clark. 



At Horace Greeley's Home 

CHE Editor-farmer went to Chappaqua, his home, the 
evening before, and his smiling face met the visitors who 
came in the first morning train from New York City. 
Guests were flocking in throughout the day. 

The first act was a social stroll over the farm. The Blonde 
Philosopher led the way, and pointed out where we could find 
the rarest apples. The large old farmhouse proper was soon 
in view — "The pleasantest spot on the place to live in, if Mrs. 
Greeley would ever consent to have about an acre of trees cut 
down ; but she cannot make up her mind to that." 

After we had seen Mr. Greeley's special spring, one of 
several which feed a creek that meanders around mossy rocks, 
and we had followed the winding of a road under a variety of 
shady trees, we came to his "model barn." There the next 
President of the United States seated himself on a rock with 
the ladies, and used this first opportunity to look into the daily 
newspapers, while the men scattered on an independent stroll 
and smoke. 

In the house the daughter, Miss Ida, was the cordial hostess. 
The younger sister. Miss Gabrielle, is a cherry-cheeked, rosy- 
lipped, white-toothed maiden of "sweet sixteen's" artlessness. 
After dinner, the ladies played croquet, and in her room lay 
the invalid, Mrs. Greeley, wide-awaake and strong in mind. 
Her frankly spoken, impressive thoughts, we shall always re- 
member. 

While Mr. Greeley dozed over the Tribune, the men dis- 
cussed politics rapidly; until the Philosopher, startled from his 
nap exclaimed: "Oh! Mr. S., you mustn't get out of temper!" 
"But such lies!" — The Sage replied: "If you expect a pres- 
idential election without lies, you may as well expect a Summer 
without grasshoppers." 

By the afternoon train we all returned, and to this day in 
far-off Nineteen Hundred and Fourteen, I remember that I 
was the privileged one to be seated by the great and genial 
editor, until at New York City a friend and closed carriage 
smuggled him away from curious eyes. 

A few weeks later Horace Greeley and Mrs. Greeley were 
breathing the ether of The Better Land. 

(Condensed from Anna Ballard's report in the next day's 
New York Sunday Mercury, September eighth, eighteen 
seventy-two.) 

Anna Ballard. 



n 



The Dunes 

ERE Nature sings her quaintest tunes. 
And dons her dearest robes of fairy 
Among the sandy, wind-swept dunes, 



And to the listening reeds she croons 
A cradle song elf-like and airy, — 
Here Nature sings her quaintest tunes, 

And if you walk 'neath Autumn moons 
Of wraith-like forms you'd best be wary, 
Among the sandy, wind-swept dunes; 

For Hecote chants her mystic runes 
To charm us into paths contrary, — 
Here Nature sings her quaintest tunes, 

And to the wearj' brings her boons 
Of rest and pleasures salutary 
Among the sandy, wind-swept dunes. 

So here, on fading afternoons, 
I wander, lost in sweet vagary ; 
Here Nature sings her quaintest tunes, 
Among the sandy, wind-swept dunes. 

Florence Holbrook. 



I Watched the Children 

WATCHED the children playing in the sunlight. 
The children with their wind-blown locks astray. 
The children with their wind-kissed eager faces, 
The merry, merry children at their play. 



I 



Ah, very young and careless are the children, 
Ah, very old and tired my heart today. 

So long ago it is, do I remember? — 

I joined the merry children at their play. 

Leonora Pease. 



A Memory Page 



A Prayer for Every Day 

O Thou, Almighty Power! 
Teach me to take from Thee my dole 
Of good or ill, and murmur not. 
O, make my finite mind to grasp 
That, in Thy infinite plan, there is 
No place for my weak cries against 
The grief and sorrow of the common 

lot. 
Blot out the Ego that doth crush my 

soul 
Beneath its load of selfishness and 

greed, 
And let me know, what now I dimly 

guess, 
The fullness of Thy purposes, for my 

desire 
For which I vainly plead, when 

placed beside 
Humanity's great need, sinks into 

nothingness. 
Oh Thou, High Over All! 
Suffer my mean, ungenerous prayer, 
That Thou wouldst change Thy 

changeless laws, 
Which make strict justice, mercy 

most divine, 
To fall on unheeding ears. Bring me 
To feel Thy love, which, all em- 
bracing, wraps 
Not only me about, but takes the 

whole 
Great universe within its sheltering 

folds. 
Thy way is right ; and though in fol- 
lowing it 
My path leads o'er the plowshare's 

lurid red, 
Still will I trust Thy guidance sure, 

and say 
While yet I lift my streaming eyes 

to Thee, 
Thy will be done. 

Idah McGlone Gibson. 



The Legend of the Seven Corn Maidens 

^TT^E ARE a people who run after strange gods, and are 

\l/ more familiar with the story of the Pleiades than with 

the Indian legend of the seven lovely Corn Maidens. 

This same legend is found among the Zunis of today and 
among the old Peruvians of a thousand years ago. 

The Corn, so the legends tell, was created in the night 
and in the firelight. The seven Corn Maidens were seven 
stars from Heaven and they wished to create something which 
would be of benefit to the children of earth. So they formed 
a circle and danced about a sprig of grass. 

They were joined in the dance by the Spirit of the Waters, 
who was a beautiful youth. They danced toward him, two 
by two, the eldest first, whilst the great Mother stood near, 
blessing. As their finger-tips touched his, fruit is given to the 
grass plant, and corn is created! But the grass still keeps its 
identity, as may be seen by the tassel at the top. 

This was at night, and the ears of corn take their color 
from the firelight in which they were born. 

When the fire is first lighted it gives a strong yellow flame. 
The first ear is yellow and signifies the North. 

The red tip of the blaze gives the red ear, the South. 

The intense blue flame gives the blue ear, the West; and 
as the fire dies down to white ashes, the white ears, the East — 
the Dawn! 

When one blows upon the flames the sparks fly upward 
and the speckled ear is formed, which typifies the Upper Region. 

Now all dies out and is black; we have the black ear — the 
Lower Regions. 

Then, the sweet corn — the Virgin! 

Great ceremonials are used in the winter when preparing 
the corn for planting. In religious rites, a large basket tray 
is used, around the outer edge of which is ranged the ears of 
seven colors. Next these are cakes, each carefully prepared 
from the separate colored ears, and in the center one of each 
of these cakes is taken and crumbled to pieces, typifying the 
final commingling of all into one great whole. 

Legends of the Corn Maidens are endless. 

This one was given by a priest of the Zuni. 

Susan S. Frackleton. 



The Fruit Tree 

ONE fruit-tree in my little garden lives — 
White, white it stands! 
Celestial promise of the time it gives 
Its fruits to arid lands. 
But oh ! my gratitude I may not write 

Till calmer hours; 
So wonderful the perfect, present sight, 
God's gift of flowers! 

Frances Squire Potter. 



a>e 



The Inner Silence 

QOISES that strive to tear 
Earth's mantle soft of air 

And break upon the stillness where it dwells: 
The noise of battle and the noise of prayer, 
The cooing noise of love that softly tells 
Joy's brevity, the brazen noise of laughter — 
All these affront me not, nor echo after 

Through the long memories. 
They may not enter the deep chamber where 
Forever silence is. 

Silence more soft than spring hides in the ground 

Beneath her budding flowers; 
Silence more rich than ever was the sound 

Of harps through long warm hours. 
'Tis like a hidden vastness, even as though 
Great suns might there beat out their measures slow 

Nor break the hush mightier than they. 

There do I dwell eternally. 

There where no thought may follow me. 
Nor stillest dreams whose pinions plume the way. 

Harriet Monroe. 



23 



COMPENSATION 

MEDIUM 



WordBly MH. 

Allegretto 



Music by 
CARRIE JACOBS -BOND 




Copyright MCMXIV by Carrie Jacobs. Bond & Son 



International Copyrigfat Secored 



24 




Aft - er the false.came the true. 



Con • fi - deuce, aft - er my 



11 a V- 



m 



f"LLjTrIi^frf 




i'l jnM.'» i aifr' i^r iL.r <i f — J_jJ 



Compensation (m)-2 



25 



The Real Fountain of Youth 

CHE Scotch soldier-preacher says: "We all get what we 
gang in for." 

Take this for the watchword in the battle we are 
waging to keep young and vigorous so long as we all shall live. 

Most of us have grown tired of the growing-old habit — 
we are all girls and boys of varying ages, and each day are 
more and more astonished to find how like ourselves everybody 
else is — all thinking of the difficulties and perplexities of grow- 
ing old, weary of the process and wondering if there be any 
method for avoiding it. 

In outward form people have stopped growing old, Men 
no longer tolerate long beards, women have ceased to don 
shoulder shawls and caps. The deaf no longer put hands 
behind the ear to hear, or before them like the Dutchman, to 
beg, "A little louder, please." Modern men and women fight 
the tendency to stoop, to use a cane. They wear rimless 
glasses, make regular visits to the dentist, breathe deeply, take 
cold baths, and sleep with open windows. By exercise they 
fight off double chins and too solid flesh. 

I know a vigorous lady of eighty who talks of vaulting 
lightly into bed — and does it; another who, when she hears a 
hurdy-gurdy outside her window, cuts flying pigeon wings all 
'round the room. 

Conserving the activity of the brain cells, we give light to 
the eye, suppleness to the body, and remove to a distance illness, 
age — even death itself. 

Why are actresses the youngest women in the land today ? 
Because every faculty of body and mind is in constant use. 
They must be pointed, animated, alert, to the very last. 

The surest way to keep young is to mingle with young 
people and persons of optimistic temperament. Cultivate their 
point of view, read wholesome books, frown down lugubrious 
recitals, refuse to brood over life's tragedies. Nothing mars 
the human visage so swiftly as fretfulness and complaining. 

Study the problems which bring all the intellectual energies 
into use. Howells warns us of the danger, one day in middle 
life, when we slump and let a feeble performance blight the 
fame of strenuous endeavor. 

Do not let go your hold on work. It is the only saving 
grace. Only through the great and constant blessing of endless 
endeavor will one find the spring for which Ponce de Leon 
vainly sought. ^j^,^^ Reynolds Kellogg, M. D. 



When Daylight Fades 

©HEN daylight fades 
A silence broodeth over all the land ; 
The waves creep slowly up the glistening sand ; 
The roistering wind grows strangely still : 
More sweetly sounds the music of the rill 
When daylight fades. 

When daylight fades 
Long shadows gather on the pine crowned hill ; 
The mossy wheel turns slowly at the mill ; 
The downy chickens seek their mother's wing; 
The crickets in the long lush grasses sing 

When daylight fades. 

When daylight fades 
The whip-poor-will pipes forth his lonely call ; 
The dewdrops glisten on the old stone wall, 
And sunset skies turn dim and faintly gray, 
While fireflies flash their lamps across the way, 

When daylight fades. 

When daylight fades 
The flowers drooping, nestle in their beds. 
And babies, nodding curly, drowsy heads. 
Are pillowed on their loving mothers' breast; 
All living things are touched to tender rest. 

When daylight fades. 

When daylight fades 
Into death's dreamless lethe-dipped starless night, 
What fields elysian touched with unknown light; 
What sun-kissed arching azure summer skies, 
What flower-gemmed world will greet our waking eyes 

When daylight fades? 

Agnes Potter McGee. 



27 



Our Intellectual Life 

GOMPARAllVELV speaking, veiy few people in these 
days lead, in even a small degree, what may be called 
"the intellectual life." Men in business find, for the 
most part, that business practically absorbs their entire mental 
force; at the end of the day most men seek recreation in some 
other form than that which calls for brain-activity. Here and 
there are men who find rest in their libraries, reading "some- 
thing good," or who are able to produce and enjoy music, but 
such men are apt to be "solitary;" their reading and thought, 
their recreation after toil, no matter upon what high plane it 
may be, is apt to be purely academic; such men are more in 
need of the stimulation of intellectual human companionship 
than of hooks; and that is the very thing they find hardest to 
get. Women, as a rule, find the cares of the household, or of 
business, if such is their lot, enough to absorb their nervous 
forces to such an extent that they are not equal to more in- 
tellectual e.xertion than is required by the game of bridge, or 
the mild demands of one of the late novels, or the current 
magazines. And yet, just why these individual units of in- 
tellectual activity should stagnate from the lack of stimulation 
of mental contact is indeed a weighty problem to solve. 

We are either intellectually tired, or intellectually lazy, 
after business all day ; one needs more recreation than an even- 
ing in his library; that form of intellectual exercise isn't vital 
and invigorating — we need to come more in contact with other 
minds than we can do by books. Academic reading is all 
right — but it ought to lead to practical uses ; and it cannot and 
does not — without the personal element of association directly 
with other minds. It remains then to ask — can people, as a 
whole, be co-ordinated? And how may it be done? 

Clever people are often individualists who make demands 
which other clever people fail to appreciate, and one hesitates 
in preparing a thesis on an abstract point like — "Can a man 
think in any century but his own?" The discussion is apt to 
become personal, and acrimonious. In these modern times, in- 
tellectual snobbishness always seems to underlie an intellectual 
uplift movement. If a man does not care for reflections of 
life interpreted through the medium of tone or color or poetic 
line, let him enjoy life at first hand ; after all he may be saner 
than we. 

Sadie E. Carver. 



28 



To the Men 

^' — tf'EST suppose you had to court by screechin' like a screech 
\^^ owl, 

Or else were forced to win j^our love by preenin' like a 
peafowl ! 
What if you had to slink an' dodge, like an old black vulture, 
While you proved to your dear girl, your boundless love an' 

culture! 
How would you like to woo her, by a heron's dancin', 
Or as a courtin' pheasant does, a drummin' an' a prancin'! 
Perhaps you'd have to sing to her, like a night hawk screechin', 
Or imitate a vireo, turnin' somersaults an' preachin' ! 
Suppose to win a wife you must, like old red-head soundly lick 

her, 
Course I know you've ivanted to; but that only works with a 

Miss Woodpicker 
Can you imagine how you'd look, like a turkey gobbler struttin'. 
To pay for pancakes, lovin' up, an' a neatly sewed on button? 
Don't you think that you'd feel great, like an old drake quackin'. 
Or like a guinea in the grass, a floppin' an' pot-rackin'? 
When you watch these feathered males, an' their sufferin' mates 

endurin' 
Ain't you glad you got a way, more graceful an' allurin'? 

'Gene Stratton Porter. 



A Confession 

I don't like radishes — one bit me once. 

Mme. Qui Vive. 



29 



A Memory Page 



30 



Three Women in a Garden 

UNLIGHT glints through wind blown leaves, 
mignonette and Summer is in the air. 



The scent of 




Said she of the slate-gray eyes — eyes that darkened and 
lightened, eyes that were sometimes dark as midnight 
skies and sometimes steely as the sun at noonday — 
"If he whom I love were false to me I could f ^| 
not find it in my heart to forgive. I must 
have all or nothing," and the eyes were 
gray as storm clouds. 

Said she of the dark brown 
eyes — eyes that looked out on 
life with a look of long-ago 
pain not yet forgotten — eyes 
that questioned life, unan- 
swered — "Forgiveness is not 
impossible, it is the forget- 
ting that is hard. The 
woman of a man's heart 
may not always be the 
woman of his arms — but 
it is hard to forget — " 
and the eyes glowed fiercely 
for a moment at variance 
with the placid brow. 

Said she of the deep blue 
eyes — eyes like faded violets — 
eyes that had seen life and now 
gave forth a benediction — "Women 
must be the mothers of men's souls 
Love is the act of taking in one's youth, of -^ 

giving in one's middle age and of accepting as 
the years go by. Forgiveness and forgetting slip 
from the mind and heart — there is only room at the end 
for faith — " and the sweetness of much loving, many for- 
givings and all the forgettings glowed like a flaming candle still 
burning in the heart. 

There was no word spoken. The wind brought the scent of mignon- 
ette. A bee buzzed dreamily. A bird murmured soft warnings to her mate. 



Elizabeth Curtiss Nolan 



Woman 

HMAN to whom I was talking, not long ago, said, 
"Well, if women don't like the laws they have only 
themselves to blame; they were napping, and men 
made laws to suit themselves." 

Woman "napping," indeed! 

She was stunned. Man slugged her over the head and 
dragged her off — that was the way he got her, originally, and 
when she came to she was minding the baby with one hand and 
skinning a deer with the other. A fine chance she had to make 
laws, or even to think about them. 

In the prehistoric days man's business in life was to keep 
himself, his mate, and his offspring alive. As he was the 
stronger, physically, the getting and keeping of whatever the 
family had devolved upon him. Might made right. He 
fought, killed, and stole, that they might exist. 

But there was a gentler side to life, even in the old, old 
days. 

As time went on, if the family was to have anything but 
raw material, the woman had to provide it. She dug up the 
ground with a crooked stick, she sowed the seed, she reaped the 
harvests, she ground the meal, she baked the bread to nourish 
the sons that she bore. She raised the flax to make the fine 
linen in which to clothe her household. She sheared the lambs, 
and spun and dyed the wool from which she wove the scarlet 
cloth in which her lord went forth to sit in the seats of the 
mighty and to join in the councils of the wise and great. And 
if, perchance, she were allowed to speak when her master re- 
turned to the home which she had made, she gave him of the 
thoughts that had crystallized in her mind in the long hours 
of her lonely toil. She softly bade him to remember mercy, 
to love peace — that righteousness is the mother of all good, of 
all prosperity, of all happiness — and she pointed the way to- 
ward God. 

"She had done what she could." 

Heloise Wynne. 



32 



The Crumpled Rose Leaf 

OlD you ever hear of that king of old 
Whose chief delight was to fuss and scold, 
And who swore that his bed was so full of humps 
That he could not sleep because of the lumps? 
Well, on looking to find what the cause might be. 
What do you think the maids did see? 
Not a piece of wood, nor a chunk of lead. 
Nor a ball of yarn, nor a spool of thread. 
But just a rose leaf, crumpled and sweet. 
Which had clung to the hem of the 'broidered sheet 
When drawn from the chest, where in soft repose 
It had gathered the fragrance of many a rose. 
Just a crumpled rose leaf — that was all! 
Yet even this dainty thing, so small. 
Could make his worries and frettings double 
To this man who wanted to borrow trouble. 
And all of us worry and lose our sleep 
Over little things, that we hug and keep 
Till they grow and grow, and seem to be 
High as the hills, and deep as the sea. 
Little troubles and little cares. 
Wrinkle our faces and whiten our hairs; 
Make us fretful and crabbed and old ; 
Banish our friends, make love grow cold ; 
And when real trouble at last walks in, 
We've no strength left to fight him and win. 
Don't waste your life in this foolish way, 
Hunting up something by night and day. 
That you imagine is going wrong 
And you must right it. Just travel along 
And try to gather the sweets of life. 
Forgetting its sorrows and toil and strife. 
Brace up! don't falter and stumble and fall. 
It may be but a rose leaf, after all! 

Sallie M. Moses. 



A Memory Page 



An Answer to Kipling's Poem 

"The Female of the Species is More Deadly than the Male' 



H 



OR the female of the species is more deadly than the 
male," 
Is the battle cry of Kipling, in his egotistic tale, 
Which decries, O ! shame to say it, the sex that gave him birth, 
And likens all of womankind to reptiles of the earth; 
Wondrous facts he has omitted in his poetic lore; 
'Tis strange he has forgotten how heavy women score; 
After eating fruit forbidden, Adam tried to lay the blame 
On the woman God had given, and it's ever been the same. 
Only God and all his angels know the cross the women bear 
When they give up happy girlhood for matrimony's care, 
Bravely fighting and defeating woes in life that make her quail, 
"For the female of the species is more deadly than the male." 

There's a woman's name that's sacred, praises sung in every 

tongue, 
For she gave mankind a Savior in her own beloved Son; 
Inherent, noble Mary, she endowed her child with grace, 
The perfect man and master, the Redeemer of his race. 
'Twas a woman's instigation sent Columbus o'er the sea, 
'Twas a woman's powerful book that helped the negro free; 
In the mighty throes of battle, near the thickest of the fray! 
'Twas a woman's hand that succored the wounded as they la> 
Torn and bleeding, life fast ebbing, one last message home to 

send, 
It was given and transmitted by the dying soldier's friend. 
No fear had she of shot or shell that showered her like hail, 
'Tor the female of the species is more deadly than the male." 

Thus down through all the ages women ever face the fight. 
Strong in courage, faith and justice, with her face toward the 

light; 
Oft disheartened, often weary, plodding onward brave and 

true, 
Ever giving, ne'er receiving, shirking naught she has to do, 
She it is who molds the Nation, gives the world her men of 

fame ; 
She is not a beast of burden — give her credit in her name 
For her progress and her virtues — it has been a bitter fight, 
For men all through the ages have denied the woman's right 
To use the brains God gave her as well as bear men's sons ; 
For the good of all humanity before life's race is run 
She'll solve the many problems, you'll never see her fail, 
'Tor the female of the species is more deadly than the male." 



Estelle Rvan Snvd 



yacr. 



35 



Excerpt from "Teaching and Nursing" 

nUMANITY always understands humanity. Races, ages, 
individuals misunderstand and impede one another. 
Indeed, so dulled do we become by tradition per- 
petuated from accumulated interference with Nature, that we 
come to accept involved and toggled-up human relations as in- 
evitable, and it does not occur to us that we may rid ourselves 
of this incubus by opening the springs of human nature and 
permitting the free forces of Eternal Nature herself to pour 
through us, into society, her remedial vitality. I say "it never 
occurs to us," for it is rather a need of enlighteninent than a 
need of faith which deters us from developing as the lilies of 
the field do. 

Faith every living organism possesses, but, as with all other 
factors of human activity, it is, as yet, conscious in the few only. 
Jesus was so conscious an exponent of faith, the simplicity 
which He brought into all phases of life which He entered was 
so healing, that His teaching and healing influence has carried 
through the increasing complexities of two thousand years, and 
clears the troubled hearts and minds of men today. 

It is the "considering" that we need. 

Nature's laws are always operating, and our Being has 
faith in them whatever may be the befogged and entangled 
condition of our minds, which have been led into strange 
devices. Nature, in turn, has large faith in her novitiate child, 
trusting to his unconscious Being to fulfill in time normality 
for the race, while his conscious mind, during its period of 
initiative, busily sets to work to bewilder human relations into 
an artificial and crucifying interdependence, which it calls "civ- 
ilization." 

Civilization, as it has been understood, and as we now 

understand it, is, we suppose, a part of Nature's patient plan. 

But that it is not the adequate expression of that plan we are 

inspired to believe every time we consider the lilies of the field. 

Cornelia B. de Bev, M. D. 




When Carrie Jacobs Bond Sings 

^Tp^HEN Carrie Jacobs Bond sings 
\ly What do we hear and see? 

A sweet-brier hedge; waving wings- — 
Bird, butterfly and bee; 
A meadow-lark in daisied field ; 
A robin at top of white birch tree, 
A swinging and singing to you and me, 
Of love and trust and joy, and peace, 
Of duty and beauty and service and rest — 
And the sky is aglow in the west; 
A pond-lily pool, a violet bed, 
A sorrowing mother with low-bow'd head ; 
A winding river which sings and purls 
As on it travels in eddies and swirls 
To join the ceaseless ocean ; 
The tiny tinkle a wind-harp sings ; 
The human moaning of violin strings; 
The hope and faith of each human heart ; 
The pain and yearning when lovers part; 
A wild-rose thicket where thrushes meet; 
A new-made grave in God's acre sweet ; — 
So many sweet, indescribable things 
We see and hear when this woman sings. 

Marv Badollet Pow( 




Feminine Philosophy 



COMMON sense is a commendable quality. It keeps us 
from doing many foolish acts and it is altogether reliable, 
like a good kitchen range or a favorite cake recipe. But 
the trouble with an excess of common sense is that it often 
crowds out much that is delightfully absurd, beautifully sweet, 
and tenderly delirious. Also, too much common sense makes 
us too serious and to be too serious is not to be companionable 
to those who love us. Beware, you wise ones, lest you grow too 
wise. A little nonsense — vou know the rest. 



ii/e 



To allow oneself to be trampled upon is not meekness. It 
is mere passivity and inertia. A meekness which endures in 
order that it may shape things better is the real virtue. The 
gentlest of mothers and wives is often the firmest and most in- 
fluential. Meekness is not an end but a means to an end. The 
power of a great anger may lie behind it, and actually enhance 
its value. 

It ought not be a weak attribute of goodness, but a token 
of strength, self-controlled and dedicated to the service of 
others. Militant meekness is one of the strongest forces in the 
world — and no modern woman who expects to accomplish any- 
thing should be without it. 

Mary Eleanor O'DonnelL 




38 



The Wind Some Day 

J^^HE Wind some day— the ranting Wind and idle- 
^^ My servitor shall be 

To waft from Fire's caress the dust that mantled 
My earth necessity. 

That no cold grave cell may, enclosing, stifle 
My residue of clay, 

Svv^ift to my need, in answer to the spirit. 
From far— in haste— shall come, the Wind some day. 
Some day the Wind — that bloweth where it listeth — 
A tryst with me shall make. 
One last embrace when, dust to dust returning, 
Earth's temple I forsake. 

Back to the void from which all law M^as fashioned 
The Thinker to obey, 

Unparticled, dissolved, from form to freedom, 
My liberation waits the Wind some day. 

Anstiss C. Gary. 



a>e 



Consecration 

CATHEDRAL spire and lofty architrave, 
Nor priestly rites and humble reverence, 
Nor costly fires of myrrh and frankincense 
May give the consecration that we crave; 
Upon the shore where tides forever lave 
With grateful coolness on the fevered sense; 
Where passion grows to silence, rapt, intense, 
There waits the chrismal fountain of the wave. 

By rock-hewn altars where is said no word; 
Save by the deep that calleth unto deep, 
While organ tones of sea resound above; 
The truth of truths our inmost souls have heard, 
And in our hearts communion wine we keep, 
For He, Himself hath said it — "God is Love." 

Myrtle Reed. 



The Joys of (xardens 

HS NATURE is the Vicar of God, the true Gardener is 
of the Temple. Many kneel at the altars, their senses 
enthralled by the incense, the music, the vision of the 
enthroned cross and the mystical ceremonial, and go away ask- 
ing, "What does it mean?" 

But for the true Gardener every place is a temple, and the 
arching heavens above the open fields is the greatest vaulted 
roof of all. He may prostrate himself amid the smoke of 
sacrifice in cathedral splendor, while his open soul knowing that 
these are but symbols, takes flight into infinite spaces with 
longing for a knowledge of the angelic choirs, and one glimpse 
of Him the source of light and life. 

For the Gardener is ever in the company of the invisible 
Deity. Going hand in hand with Nature, witnessing the hourly 
miracles of creation, his faith is perennial, his hope renewed, 
and his conviction firm that there is no death, but that man like 
the flower transmits life from season to season, plays his part 
in the immeasurable plan and may rejoice in immortality in the 
infinite years, which no human mind has yet been able to under- 
stand. 

Then blest is he who loves and tends a single plant. He 
is a partner in the mystery, he too may feel the heart of Nature 
throbbing in the earth. No common joys are his. His 
thoughts range in the azure skies by day and night, he delights 
in sunshine and is patient in rain, he never ceases to wonder 
at the marvel of the lily or the rose, or the commonwealth of 
grasses in the fields. His companions are the bees, the butter- 
flies and singing birds, and the earth is illumined with celestial 
light. 

Ever with Nature the Vicar of God, the Gardener is never 
alone. He is conscious of the supreme benediction that falls 
on those who would make the earth more beautiful by their 
labors, and so take part in the scheme of the Creator of it all. 
Forgetful of selfish ends, not seeking ephemeral wealth nor 
knowledge, the humble Gardener is yet the citizen of the world. 
His chosen friends of field and garden meet him in mountains, 
plains or city yards, and so divinely blest he asks no more, but 
that he maj' walk with angels in his garden. 

Lena N. McCauley. 

40 " . . 



The Prince 0' The Green World 

CHE Prince of the Rainbow slid down to earth on a sun 
thread. The green world, if you must know, O, Alice 
and Carolyn and Bob so mischief-wise, is a place where 
something is always fighting to be on top. Sometimes it is 
Mist o' Rain, and it depends upon the kind of eyes people have 
as to how they feel on the days she is in power. Sometimes it 
is Burning Shine, and again it depends on whether people's eyes 
are strong as to how they feel on his days. 

When the little fellow alighted on the grass where the 
violet's breath made the earth sweet, he found himself at the 
foot of a tall, slender tree, that wept softly. 

"Why do you weep so?" asked the fairy prince. 

"On account of the day," sobbed the tree. "Who could 
be glad in a green world ruled by Mist o' Rain? You have 
been away a long time," he continued. 

"I came to conquer the green world again," answered the 
Prince of the Rainbow. "I was afraid I should be forgotten 
and to be forgotten is to cease to live, and I will not die. I 
must not, for my only existence is in the hearts of the people 
of the green world, and all hearts would wither without me." 

"Oh, I do not know about that," said the sad tree. "There 
are those who think that nothing is but what one thinks, and 
there are others who believe that nothing is but what it is 
possible to touch, and in the green world there are more of 
the latter. They won't believe in you, so you will cease to 
exist in a short time in the green world. 

"And what do you believe?" asked the Prince of the Sad 
Tree. 

"I?" said the tree. "Well, I do not believe in you at all. 
What's the use of believing in anything when the green world 
is in the power of Mist o' Rain? And anyway, I have to 
hunt so hard and look so far to see you that my neck actually 
grows painful from the twisting. I don't believe there is any 
joy, therefore there can be no joy. O, you will soon cease to 
be in the green world. I advise you to go back to the thought- 
land on your sun thread and stay there." 

The poor Prince of the Rainbow was very much fright- 
ened. "I shall die," he thought, "and then the hearts of all 
living things in the green world will become withered and old 
and useless, and only powers like Mist o' Rain will visit the 



42 



green world ! O, surely, every one does not believe as you 
do, great tree!" he cried. 

"Every one but the children," replied the sad tree; "and 
they may soon. One never knows." 

"I must find the children quickly!" he cried. He smiled 
such a gay smile at the thought that a sun thread darted in 
among the grasses. The prince caught it and on it dipped and 
soared to all the little children of the green world. "Lend me 
your smiles!" he called to them, and they all gave them gladly, 
without question, because the prince was in their hearts. 

Then the Prince of the Rainbow took the smiles of the 
little children and blew them gently through the tear drops 
of Mist o' Rain and there was reflected such joy of all living 
things in the green world that a rainbow visited the sky again 
as a herald, then faded into the glory of the sun. 

The Prince of the Rainbow was sure of his life again! 

Ruth Kerfoot. 



a>e 



Self Reliance 

nITTLE yaller blossom, 
Peekin' fru de grass, 
Waitin' mity patient 
Foh de storms tu pass. 
Goes a-head er smilin'. 
Brighter ebbery day, 
Jess keeps on er growin' 

'Neath skies cold en gray. 
Little yaller blossom. 

If de truf wuz known, 
You're jess er makin' 
Sunshine of your own. 



Ophelia Lawrence Blair. 



43 



\ Hallowe'en Fancy 

^T^HERE are the fairies of yesteryear? 
v I y Where are the tender, unseen presences that whole 

nations once loved ? 

Hallowe'en is here again. 

It's cold without you. 

Where is merry Robin Goodfellow, and where is Puck? 
The pixies, elves and kelpies, where are they? Where is Ariel 
flown, and where are "the little people"? 

"Wee folk, good folk, 
Trooping all together 
Green jacket, red cap, 

And white owl's feather?" 

Where are the little mountain men Rip Van Winkle met in 
our own Catskills, and where the gnomes of Germany's jeweled 



nsr 



mines and mountai 

Where the woodsprites and dryads, the fauns and satyrs 
of a younger Europe? Where is Daphne? Where is Undine? 

Where are tlie trees that talked, the stones and semblances 
that were transmuted into beings in a twinkling before believ- 
ing eyes? 

Where are the sprites that put dewdrops in the flowers 
o' early morn and the sandman that sowed the seeds of sleep? 

Gentle dreamful deities of an older world, where have 
you fled ? 

Come back! It's Hallowe'en and the world wants you! 
It wants you more than ever it wanted anything else in all its 
heavy round, wants the mystery, the tender fear and fearful 
faith that went away when you went — wants its fairy god- 
mother back ; wants its Lorelei, wants its dryads and its Ceres, 
wants its faith in all beautiful, mystical things. 

We thought to stand alone, conquerors of earth ! 

We prided ourselves on freedom ! 

You were superstitions and nothing more, we said. You 
never peopled woods and fields, we mocked. No gods come 
down froin starry skies to brother with mankind. 

This was sea and this was land ; this a tree and that a 
rock. There were no Poseidons, no earth-shaking Atlases, no 
fairy folk, no gods, no goblins! 

What have we got in exchange for faith that saw God 
in every form of nature, Christ in the beggar fed at eve at the 
woodman's table, the traveler ferried on Christopher's hack 
across the stream? 

Night has come upon us, O little people! 

A sky without a star is over us. 

We are afraid. 

O invisible presence of Earth's \outh, of reverence and 
belief and prayer, return, we pray! 

The world is cold without you. 

It's Hallowe'en ! 

Mary O'Connor Newell. 

44 



Allegro 



Great Day of God. 

Words & Music by L, R. WAITE. 




Great Day of the unveiling 
Of Truths Deep mysteries, 
When every hidden secret 
Of earth and sky and seas, 
In all their wondrous beaut)', 
To man shall be revealed; 
Nor can an act or motive 
By man now be concealed. 



Great Day of God,All glorious; 

Great Day of Peace, so blest; 

The thought of Thee brings gladness, 

And dilates every breast. 

Great Day of one religion, 

When all are understood; 

One faith in Life Eternal, 

One God, one Brotherhood. 



The Aristocracy of Brains 

^^^ELL me who that shabby-looking little woman is over 
V /^ there in that group of stunningly gowned women by 
the fireplace? How pathetic her poor little hat and 
gloves are, and doesn't her dress remind you of a rag-bag? 
She must have sublime courage to come here in that costume, 
and yet I remember now that I have seen her at all the most 
elegant functions this winter, and she seems popular, too. How 
do you suppose she manages it?" 

The other woman smiled patiently as she answered : "Why, 
with her brains, of course. She hasn't any money, so she can't 
win attention with her clothes or entertaining, and as her 
people all died before she came here, a stranger, to live, she 
has not had any family to back her. What little beauty she 
ever had faded long ago, but she has made herself a personality 
by using her brains and will power. She has been clever 
enough to surround herself with brainy people, to be on the 
intellectual, progressive and uplifting side of every important 
movement. She is president of our best Woman's Club, and 
is virtually the head of another prominent organization. She 
has great executive ability, is clear sighted enough to see the 
result of anything before it is started, has the wisdom to let 
go as well as to take hold of the handles of Life's wheelbarrow. 
She does not use her brains in a cold, calculating, selfish way, 
but for the attainment of rare culture, love of humanity and 
fidelity to ideals." 



Three friends were motoring home from a reception and 
the conversation, becoming intimate, turned toward their 
hostess. 

"She doesn't look a day over thirt>'-five," began one of 
the women, "and I know she is twenty years older than that. 
Really, I never have seen her when she looked her age by a 
dozen years. Of course, she has some gray hairs and one 
or two characteristic lines, but she always expresses eternal 
youth to me. What can be her secret?" 

"Oh, that is easy," answered another woman; "she hasn't 
any worries, wnth a comfortable income, an adoring, congenial 
husband, no children; what cares or responsibilities has she 
to age her?" 

46 



"Well," said the first speaker, "things, after all, are pretty 
evenly divided in this world, and you can't tell me that a 
woman can reach fifty years without sorrows and disappoint- 
ments." 

"You are right," interrupted the third woman, who loved 
the one they were discussing; "she has had them, too; known 
w-hat it was to lie awake long, anxious hours in the night, 
learned to laugh and talk while a grim spectre mocked close 
behind her; her heart has paid grief and sorrow their usual 
toll. She had kept young through it all by a life of intense 
mental activity. 

"Her intellectual pleasures and mental activity have helped 
her forget the cares that could have pressed heavily — the grief 
that might have corroded — and have left her spirit young, her 
eyes bright, her entire being responsive, alive, sympathetic and 
interesting." 

Florence Adams Gebhardt. 



J3^ 



The Alchemist 

aNDER the argentine glow of the Easter-time 
We loosen our hold on all sordid conventions 
And fling our souls out in the freedom of gladness! 
The in-rushing thoughts come sanctioned by joy — 
That luring protagonist we eagerly follow. 
In the thrill of new life all fear is cast out; 
Our listening minds hear the low call of beauty; 
The ambient air with the odor of springtime 
Is sensuous — the throbbing pulse of Ceres we feel ; 
The old "immortal indolence" bathes us once more, 
And we know we are one with the great Primal Cause. 
It is Love has relumed our stifled convictions. 
And Love that is rolling the stone away 
To give us this opulent Life today. 

Pauline Leavens. 



47 



A Woman's Thoughts 

nOVE is that W'hich makes the State of Matrimony hard 
to live in unless it is the Capital. 

Some women pray for things they'd never dream 
of working for — husbands included. 

The first family separation on record — Adam and his 
spare rib. 

Some girls' complexions are so clear they can be seen 
through at one glance. 

Some members of the oldest families look every day of it. 

"When Dreams Come True" — When a spinster takes an 
upper berth and finds a man under her bed. 

Precautionary measures are just as necessary to keeping 
freckles off your reputation as off your face. 

If there's one thing makes a woman madder than to be 
"ogled" it is not to be noticed at all. 

Doris Blake. 



sue 



Excerpt 

gND the White Lady heard a voice within 
which said: "And he just can't help being 
'black' either. Have you ever stopped to 
think how lucky you are that the Accident of Birth 
allowed you to be born 'white,' in the big house on 
your mother's plantation, instead of putting your 
soul into one of the 'black' skins in a cabin?" 

Bettv Barlow. 



48 



A Dream of Long Ago 

CHE skies are blue as the skies of June 
Have ever a right to be, 
And my heart is singing an old love tune, 
Pitched to a minor key. 
I'm dreaming a dream of olden days 

When life was bright and fair. 
Only a dream of a dreamer, dear, 
But I wonder if vou would care. 



We walk again in the flowery lane. 

Hand in hand as in days of yore. 
On the old church tower, on the leafy bower 

The moonlight falls once more. 
I listen again to your words of love. 

With rapture beyond compare. 
Only the dream of a dreamer, dear, 

But I wonder if you would care. 

The wild rose blooming by the hedge, 

Grows pale 'neath the glittering stars. 
Heaven whispers low to the waiting earth, 

As we stand at the meadow bars. 
I look once more in your love-lit eyes, 

The old fond smile jou wear. 
Only the dream of a dreamer, dear, 

But I w^onder if you would care. 

The sound of your voice comes back to me. 

Across the bridge of the years. 
My heart is an island standing alone 

In the midst of a sea of tears. 
I cover with kisses a faded rose, 

The one you asked me to wear. 
Only the dream of a dreamer, dear, 

But I wonder if you would care. 

Does the blue of the sky, the breath of a rose, 

A song heard half asleep. 
Bring back the past in a sudden rush 

Of feeling strong and deep? 
'Twere sweet to think that you and I 

The thoughts of the past still share. 
Only the dream of a dreamer, dear, 

But I wonder if you would care. 

Grace Scofield Holi 



A Japanese Mother 

eRAY Choturo heard the tramp 
Of the feet that marched to battle, 
Heard the horses neigh and stamp, 
Creak of belt and side-arms rattle. 
Heard the sudden rapt'rous cry: 
"Dai Nippon! Banzai! Banzai!" 

Near her pillow stayed her son, 
And she pressed his shoulder, harking, 
When a gun told to a gun 
That the soldiers were embarking; 
And she heard his heart beat fast 
While the countless columns passed. 

Proudly looked she in his face — 

None who marched without had bolder — 

And she drew aside apace, 

Leaned more lightly on his shoulder. 

Gleam of musket, clink of spur, 

Clang of sword, came in to her. 

Then she questioned, eye to eye: 
"Why art thou not with the others 
Where the red-orbed banners fly? 
Must I be the scorn of mothers? 
Shall I send no son to war 
For his gods and Emperor?" 

But he smiled: "With thee I stay. 
August mother, moon-white lady ; 
Scorching is the sun of day, 
And thy shoji cool and shady." 
But she shook her aged head : 
"Empty are thy words," she said. 

Then he cried: "I stay with thee! 
None remain thy life to cherish. 
When the war-drums call to me 
Can I leave thee here to perish? 
By the gods! while thou dost live 
All my days to thee I'll give!" 



50 



In Choturo's fervent gaze 
Land and mother-love were blended! 
Then he sav^^ her hand upraise 
With a dagger that descended! 
And he caught her thrilling sigh: 
"Dai Nippon/ Banzai! Banzai!" 

To his open arms she swayed, 

Her kimono crimson turning; 

But she laughed and drew the blade 

From the breast that ceased its burning; 

Gave it to his hand, and so. 

Smiling, dying, whispered: "Go!" 

Then he laid her gently down. 

Smoothed her robe, and left her straightway: 

Staggered, stumbled, through the town; 

Joined the troops that passed the gateway, 

Crying, the red blade on high : 

"Dai Nippon! Banzai! Banzai!" 

Grace Duffie Boylan. 



To Music 

IMMORTAL music! 
Heav'n's own gift that doth the 
souls of men uplift, 
Interpreter of all our moods. 
Oh, vibrant voice from solitudes, 
And cadence tender and sublime. 
Oh, linger with us for all time, 
In melody, in melody. 

Whene'er our souls droop and repine, 
Let Music charm with power divine. 
If e'er our hearts faint from defeat. 
Let Music cheer with rhythmic beat, 
Let Music charm with power divine! 



Grace T. Hadley. 



A Sketch 

^TTi^HY does the mind retain vividly certain memories when 
\\y others that v^^ould seem to have a vital relation to one's 
life are recalled only by an effort of the will? 
These three pictures recur insistently : 

A long stretch of road in late September ; a hint of storm ; 
a camp fire and figures in silhouette; suddenly, gypsies at our 
horses' heads; a hag's face thrust in ours and my opulent com- 
panion's hand seized; she snatches it away and says furiously, 
"My life is behind me — there is nothing you can tell me." 

A white moon in the Blue Ridge country ; dusky figures 
grouped under magnolia trees and negro voices singing — "Mah 
Madeline"— 

A river bank; a row boat in tow; still figures under a 
blanket, their boyish outlines revealed ; two pairs of shoes tied 
together by the strings; a brown paper parcel of lunch. A 
wisp of towsled hair sticking from beneath the blanket ; a 
woman sobbing wildly as the boat is slowly drawn upon the 
shore. 

Florence Seyler Thompson. 



s^ 



The Shining Mark 

^^5^HE little red devil unfolded his morning paper and held 
V^ J it in one hand while he toasted his bread on the end of 
a long fork over the fire. All of a sudden, he dropped 
the fork, accidentally upsetting his breakfast cup of brimstone, 
and doubled up with laughter, rolling over and over on the 
floor in fiendish glee. Then he sprang up and ran to the 'phone. 
"Hello Central, give me Death — yes Death. You know 
the number, I've called it often enough. Hello — this you. 
Old-timer? Congratulations, old boy. Now don't play in- 
nocent; cut the funeral tone. Leave that for the mourners, 
they may be sincere, you old hypocrite. Your sob stuff doesn't 
go with me, you old wolf in sheep's clothing. Everybody 
knows me for what I am. They smell the sulphur, but look 
what you get away with, mystery, solemnity. Providential 
dealings, these are the thoughts the poor humans associate with 



your awesome presence. They think of me as a very malicious 
creature, but I only go after the bad ones while you, you 
voracious old bag of bones, you have no mercy. Innocent child- 
hood, youth, early manhood, the great author, the man of 
affairs, the mother of a family — it's all the same to you. A 
shining mark — you sure got one this time, didn't you? Stow 
the voice, mate, it does'nt go with me. Why you can't even 
cover up your grinning old teeth, so don't get maudlin. A 
multi-millionaire — some shining mark believe me. And he 
can't take an ounce of all that metal with him, except the 
metallic casket. How he worked and slaved for the money — 
how he worked everybody else for it! Can't you see him 
climbing up and up that towering pinnacle of gold, on and on 
over the bodies and souls of men and women and children, 
wiping out fortunes that his own pile might grow into a 
glittering mass for fools to gape at, a mountain whose peaks 
are unattainable to the common herd? And what a write-up 
they gave him! A philanthropist — one who endowed schools 
and charitable institutions — a public-spirited gentleman, if you 
please! I've laughed my sides sore with the farce of it. Oh 
this isn't all your funeral, old top. I'll have a share in this, 
I'm thinking. What? You'll concede me the brigand with 
the black mask and revolver? Thanks. I can see you vir- 
tuously drawing that ragged old robe of yours around your 
unsightly frame. It don't go; I'm wise to you, pard. That 
hold-up man is a saint from heaven compared with your, I 
mean our, ex-philanthropist. Blood money — the hoary-headed 
old pirate — why blood drips from every ounce of his gold ! 
You haven't put anything over me this time, friend, dear 
friend. Still have the grieved tone? Well, that's part of your 
stock in trade. I'm going to ring off now. By-by. Just 
remember I'm wise. Ta ta." 

The little red devil put up the receiver, dancing up and 
down in his glee and laughing, "Ho! Ho! Ha! Ha!" after 
the manner of little red devils, which was most sacrilegious, 
infernal and brimstonic, but then that's all one could expect 
of a demon of any color, and at least he wasn't a hypocrite, 
which is saying something. 

Mary Moncure Parker. 



A Memory Page 



54 



Blight and Bloom 

HIFE hath its barren years, 
Where fair blooms fall untimely down ; 
When ripened fruitage fails to crown 
The summer toil ; when nature's frown 
Looks only on our tears. 

Life hath its faithless days — 
The golden promise of the morn, 
That seemed for light and gladness born, 
Meant only noontide wreck and scorn, 

Hushed harp instead of praise. 

Life hath its valleys too. 
Where we must walk in vain regret. 
With mourning clothed, with wild rain wet — 
Toward sunlit hopes that soon must set. 

All quenched in pitying dew. 

Life hath its harvest moons. 
Its tasselled corn and purple-weighted vine ; 
Its gathered sheaves of grain, and blessed sign 
Of plenteous ripening bread, and pure, rich wine. 

Full hearts for harvest tunes. 

Life hath its hopes fulfilled ; 
Its glad fruitions, its bless't answered prater, 
Sweeter for waiting long, whose holy air, 
Indrawn to silent souls, breathes forth in rare, 

Grand speech by joy distilled. 

Life hath its Tabor heights; 
Its lofty mounts of heavenly recognition, 
Whose unveiled glories flash to earth, munition 
Of love and truth illumining intuition. 

Hail! moimt of all delight. 

Isadore Gilbert Jeffery. 



55 



To the New Woman 

nET us drink, then, to the woman of today, and 
pledge her our good will and support; otherwise 
she may achieve, unaided and alone, a success 
whose far-reaching effect can only be conjectured. I refer 
to the crusade that has for its ultimate goal universal 
peace and love. With telescopic vision woman has dis- 
cerned these two stars struggling on the edge of the 
horizon and she has determined that they shall rise 
higher and higher in the firmament until they shine 
resplendent at the zenith. Already her hand is on the 
charter of human liberties, and she is writing a new 
gospel of comradeship — a gospel of that better civiliza- 
tion, where husband and wife, brother and sister, work 
together for the common good of all. 

Anna D. Fishback. 



i*?? 



Out of the Spice Box 

ONE doesn't mind the climbers so much — it's the pushers 
that set one's teeth on edge. 

Poor relatives will vanish when women get all the 
political jobs — even Uncle John's sister's cousin will get a 
place then. 

Paint is a lot better preservative for old lumber than for 
girls' faces. 

The bachelor girl next door says she is more a believer 
in double than single tax. 

Love is free, but it takes a little money to go to house- 
keeping. 

Uon't rely too much on a pair of honest eyes. Some people 
can teach tricks even to their eyes. 

It takes one's home folks to find out and fully appreciate 
one's faults and mistakes. 

There ought to be a special punishment devised for the 
leeches on your time and wits. 

Addie Farrar. 



The Mystery Seed 

I FOUND a Mystery-Seed. And a Voice said "Place 
the Mystery-Seed in the hollow of thy left hand; cover 
it with thy right hand, thereby making a well of warmth 
and darkness wherein thy seed may have a home. It will germi- 
nate and become transformed into a priceless jewel. Cherish 
it." I heeded the Voice. I placed the Mystery-Seed within the 
hollow of my left hand, covered it with my right hand and 
waited. Again the Voice said: "Open now thy hand, obedient 
one, and find thy treasure." I raised my right hand, and lo! 
in the hollow of my left hand I beheld a blazing jewel. Its 
flashing colors blinded my gaze, and I covered mine eyes from 
the glory which pierced me from its centre. And I felt it 
shine through my closed eyes e'en while my hand held down 
the lids, its light was so brilliant and overpowering. And I 
trembled with a great joy which sank into my soul. And I 
was still. Again the Voice spake, strong, sweet, tender and 
soft: "Child of earth, fear not. Uncover thou thine eyes. 
The shine of the jewel shall help thee to see." I obeyed 
the Voice. I was not afraid, but opened mine eyes, and looked 
once more within the opening Mystery-Seed. Its light was 
now of opalescent hue, wherein a tiny golden thread or chain 
led straight to the distant centre, and which the Voice guided 
me to follow. And mine eyes were not blinded by this light ; 
but there came with it a peace that strengthened my gaze and 
kept it fixed upon the centre which I was to gain. At times 
it was lost in translucent glory, yet I knew it was there. So 
when the golden chain became dim, I waited ; and while I 
waited the Voice whispered: "Be calm. It will shine again 
for thee, this golden thread, and thou shalt follow. The 
centre thou shalt fully see with thine open eyes, and shalt not 
be blinded. Look again, O faithful one." I looked as com- 
manded, and the glories of the centre were before me — glories 
that no words of earth can limn. And mine eyes were strong 
and could see. And as I looked the Voice again spake, thrilling 
my inmost being. It came nearer and clearer, seeming to pro- 
ceed from the centre, and it said unto me: "Once more I 
speak, O child of earth! Thou hast heard, thou hast felt, 
thou hast seen, thus art thrice blessed; this jewel is thine to 
wear within thy heart, but thou must wear it that all may 
see its shine ; if thou dost not it will fade back into the original 
Mystery-Seed which thou didst find buried within the sands 
of time. Wear it, O brave of heart, wear it that its light may 
shine for all earth's beings. 

Charlotte Cecilia Robertson. 



Reminiscent 

IN our Capitol City there dwelt a maiden with the soul 
and aspirations of an artist — but struggle and toil as she 
would, she ne\'er could make an original dra\\'ing or 
sketch. At the great Art School the instructor's criticism was 
ever the same: 

'"Turn your canvas over, Aliss Claraday, and try again." 

In a moment of despair she realized that she lacked the lofty 
inspiration and originalit\ of the true artist — that hers was 
the talent and patience of the painter who copies the work of 
others more gifted. She could make her little squares and 
measurements and produce a marvelous imitation of any picture. 

Her inconsiderate fellow-students wounded her gentle heart 
with their sneering remarks about "a mere copyist." One 
among them who sympathized and recognized her ability ad- 
vised her to devote her time and talent to the copying of cele- 
brated pictures. 

Through much crucified ambition and soul travail she took 
Mrs. Kinelsey's advice, and one blessed day when Miss Clara- 
day was at work at her easel a woman, noted for her love of 
art, her great riches and her many beautiful charities, passed 
through the Art Gallery. Her attention was arrested by the 
faithful reproduction of the famous original which hung on 
the wall near the finished copy. 

Mrs,. Landen was charmed and asked if it were for sale. 
Miss Claraday gladly answered "Yes," and Mrs. Landen pur- 
chased it. 

Years after, three women — an artist, a business woman, and 
a writer — were in Paris. They had wondered at many old 
and young students trying to copy the masterpieces of the world. 
Not one seemed able to catch the color and spirit of the original. 

Many times this trio went to the Louvre to look at the per- 
fect Venus and to commune with that wonderful woman whose 
glance has fascinated the world for so many centuries — the in- 
comparable Mona Lisa. One morning, as they approached 
the shrine, they saw a woman copying that baffling countenance. 

"That is the cleverest copy of a picture I have seen in 
Europe — it is perfect," said the artist. 

The painter turned, and her glad voice rang out: 

"My dear Mrs. Kinelsey, when did you come? Oh, it is 
good to see a dear friend once more!" 

The speaker was Miss Claraday, looking happy and pros- 
perous. She had achieved success in her chosen field of art and 
had reached the goal that so many of her fellow-students w^ere 
still striving to attain — recognition and a studio in Paris. 

Busy and content with her work, we left her, after having 
tea in her wonderful studio. 

Ella R. Thomas Havnie. 




'Way Upstairs 

^Y EYES is almost shuttin' an' I can't hold up my head, 
An' I'm so awful lonesome 'at I wish 'at I was dead — 
'Cause it's night — an' ever'body's havin' fun — down- 
stairs — but me 
An' 'ere's company at our house "at's as dressed up as can be. 

My Mama's playin' bridge I guess, wif Dad an' all the rest, 
She must forget she said she loved her little boy the best. 

I can hear her talkin' too, — an' laughin' 'way up here! 

Where there's nobody to talk to but my horse an' Teddv 
Bear,— 

An' there's great big shadows — movin' sometimes, — on the 
wall! 
An' there might be somethin' conrHfr*^thro' the window — 
or the hall. 
It's my Mama! — Yes, she's comin'— Just a flyin' tool 

An' she's sayin' when she sees me, "Boy I'd rather be with 
vou." 



'En she holds my hand an' 'en I say what always makes her 
glad — 
'At I thinks she's just the dearest Mama anybody's had. 
'En she tucks me up in bed an' helps me say my prayers, 

An' now she don't care nothin' 'bout the company down 
stairs." 

Genevieve Cooney-Porter. 



\ Memory Pag( 



60 



Gorinne Brown — A Tribute 

©LESSING and blessed is the one who can, like Corinne 
Brown, living, lead the way, and, passing on, still point 
the way. Keenly analytic and full of initiative, masterful 
and fearless, hers was the power to attract thinkers and enthuse 
them with those great truths which were life to her. Not 
with the force of a gentle spring shower, but rather with the 
force of the penetrating storm. Moth-eaten opinions were dis- 
lodged, blown about, and cast aside. New, forcible and power- 
ful principles, the foundation, of a broader social and industrial 
life, principles that promised a new conception of the brother- 
hood of man, were the articles of faith to this woman of true 
social service. 

She loved justice — that sublime attribute. She was far- 
seeing — that great psychic quality. She was democratic and 
in touch with all that concerns human joy and sorrow. 

When the full measure of criticism was falling upon the 
polygamy of the Mormon, unerringly she found the weak spot 
of his accuser. The viciousness of his own Gentile social 
system was shown and judgment rendered. In substance she 
said, "The polygamous Mormon gives to each wife a name, 
and to each of his children support, and thus fulfills his moral 
obligations. The Gentile repudiates all save his legal obligation. 
He is no more self-poised than his Mormon brother, but dis- 
claiming the responsibility of action, spreads commercialized vice 
and founds children's institutions." So did she find good in a 
despised civilization and pointed out a great defect in our own 
social system — a defect that must be met and remedied. The 
ability to separate truth from falsehood, facts from sophistry; 
the fearlessness to face results, no matter what ; the splendid 
courage to earnestly work out problems thus presented — all 
these unite in making the Corinne Brown whom today wc 
especially remember — friend, teacher, sister, comrade. 

Amelia M. Prcndergast. 



Give Me the Heart that is Loving and True 

elVE me the heart that is loving and true 
No matter how plain be the face ; 
'Tis softened, blessed by an inward grace 
Like the rose that is jeweled with dew. 



Oh, not to know love, is not to live; 
Dear heart, it is strength, life, and hope; 
No one can measure its breadth or scope. 
The most precious gift God has to give! 

Laura Jean Libbey, 



£i>e 



The Jew to Jesus 

OMAN of my own people, I alone 
Among these alien ones can know Thy face, 
I who have felt the kinship of our race 
Burn in me as I sit where they intone 
Thy praises — those, who, striving to make known 
A god for sacrifice, have missed the grace 
Of Thy sweet human meaning in its place, 
Thou who are of our blood-bond and our own. 

Are we not sharers of Thy Passion? Yea, 

In spirit-anguish closely by thy side 

We have drained the bitter cup, and, tortured, felt 

With Thee the bruising of each heavy welt. 

In every land is our Gethsemane, 

A thousand times have we been crucified. 

Florence Kiper, 



Sunshine and Shadow 

^^^HERE'S a bit of sunshine gleaming 
^^^ Over there, 

While I stand in shadow seeming 

Full of care; 
But each flicker of the leaves 
And the glow of golden sheaves 

Helps me bear. 

Though the darkness seems to thicken 

O'er the land, 
There is radiance just beyond me 

At my hand. 
When alas! I would come near, 
Something ever seems to sear 

Where I stand. 



But, thank God, my eyes can see it 

Over there. 
And its joyous flush of glory 

Seems a prayer. 
That it may my shadow kiss 
Change its sadness into bliss, 

Everywhere. 



Caroline Coe. 




Synthesis, V\ here Haltest Thou? 

'HE, Synthesis Johnson, married a Canuck, hastily, incon- 
trovertibly. His name was Cyril Whizzer. He was of 
English persuasion, she was of Swedish Massachusetts 
ancestry. 

Thankful w as Synthy that "Cyril" was not "Ev'lyn Marie" 
;ind Cyril was equally rejoiced that Synthy's cognomen wasn't 
"Rosemary Violet." "Any other bloomin' name would smell 
just as sweet," sez 'e. 

With the coyness of extreme youth, she often dubbed Cyl 
in the eye with a chunk of mud — spit balls not being always 
available. That same maidenly bashfulness attended her to 
the altar; Cylly never had the shadow of a choice, for Syn 
always "intentioned" to marry the helpless creature anyhow. 

Now, from a geometrical, ethical and mathematical view- 
point, was not this twain, made one, eminently qualified to 
become the eugenic parents of a Whizzer family? 

Everybody expected Syn and Cyl's marriage to be a failure ; 
the general public was not disappointed. Being natural born 
enemies, the course of their true love was an eternal howling 
skid way. Syn wickedly managed to see Cyl's wheels go 'round, 
and he, having a duck of a temper, wasn't afraid to show it, 
either. 

Soaring into that spiritual effluvia — that divine afflatus, of 
both hot and cold air suppurating the atmosphere of Massa- 
chusetts exclusively, Synthesis remarked: (she had a scheme 
of which Cyril had a hunch) "Cyril, my angel-face," said 
Original Syn to Aboriginal Snarl, "you will not force me to 
become a weeping widow to get the vote, will you, Cylly? 
Surely you'll heed my prayer; surely you'll take out your final 
papers and become a citizen of this great, free country, this 
country where Patrick Henry said to the English : 'Gimme 
Liberty or gimme death !' Do you not love me enough to do 
this simple act of justice for a beseeching woman?" 

"Na\A', I don't. Missus. Yer getting all the rights now 
tliat arc good for yer constitution, so quit howlin' fer more. 
That bally 'votes for women' would make you worse to live 
with than you are now ; you'd be head-o'-the-house with me if 
I forsook bully hold Hingland fer a wooden nutmeg Yankee, 
^'ou ain't a voter, nor you ever will be." Thus orating Cyril 
departed with many strides. 

The weeping woman threw herself on her stomach and said 

64- 



something not fit for publication in Swede, but taking en- 
couragement from the thought of how many votes would be 
cast out because the women who cast them didn't make their 
given ages and the year of their births jibe, she arose from 
the depths and began figuring on an old envelope. 

After Cyril's premature taking-off, there only remained the 
awful alternative of marrying an American to gain her citi- 
zenship — and what might she not butt into ? 

Hark ! Cylly's step ! He approaches, hands her some papers, 
says: 

"I saw biscuits in your eye, old gal, and I do this to save 
my life." 

Julia Katherine Barnes. 



A Message 

g NEW-FOUND truth has been given to the world as 
the result of an "inspiration" to venture upon the hith- 
erto unexplored and almost sacred grounds of the subject 
of "voice talent." The fallacy or truth of the universally 
accepted belief that a beautiful singing voice is God-given and 
a "talent" and hence an attribute of the mind or soul or emotion, 
we must ascertain; or whether the voice is an attribute of the 
physical nature and an instrument lying latent within this body 
of ours, hidden from human sight, gradually becoming diseased 
and wasting away following the natural course of things in 
nature to atrophy if not put to natural uses. 

The first real discovery made over twenty years ago vir- 
tually rang the death knell of the old belief that a beautiful 
singing voice is "God-given." The hope is extended to all 
that a beautiful singing voice is the birthright of not a few, 
but all, of God's children. 

Each and all who wish to expend the time and labor to 
the perfecting of their instrument can sing themselves to per- 
fect health and happiness, and to all those with the inborn 
talent of the artistic mind, soul and temperament, into perfect 
health, wealth and fame. 

Anna Groff-Brvant. 



65 



\ Memory Page 



66 



A Paradox 

^y^E READ, "Cast all thy care 

\^y Upon the Lord, and He will thee sustain," 

We lay our burdens there 
At His dear feet, then take them up again. 

We pray "Thy will be done," 
With white lips "bless His holy name." We sleep 

With tear-wet cheeks, and moan 
In troubled dreams; then wake again to weep. 

We read, "Judge not lest ye 
Be judged." We calumny repeat, and smile 

In quiet mockery, 
Upon the woe that we have wrought, erstwhile. 

On bended knees we pray, 
"Good Lord deliver us, our sins forgive." 

We rise and go our way, 
The selfsame wayward life again to live. 

Down through the ages' mist, 
From Calvary's lone heights, we hear anew 

These low sad words of Christ: 
"Forgive them for they know not what they do." 

Ada B. Read. 

My Baby 

SES, you are mine, you little thing of mystery, 
So eerie like you drifted in, with no line of wri 
history ; 
'Twould seem you might be strange to me, 
So lately from the Infinite eye; 
But yet you know the mother touch 
With none to tell you why. 
The mother love had yearned for you, 
Baby, oh, my baby! 

The mother heart had throbbed for you. 
Baby, oh, my baby! 
We know each other, dear ; 
The deep, unfathomable look. 
That binds my baby's love to me, 
Was never writ in book. 

Helena Bingham. 

67 





Easter 

©I R D S twittered, snuggling 
close. Squirrels scampered 
madl3s scattering with their 
bushy tails particles of fine, dry snow. 

The sun rose from a mist of fleecy 
clouds, coaxing into beauty dainty 
snow-drops, their petals glistening 
like diamonds. 

Tiny pieces of the sky had been 
used to make the cilia so blue ! Trees 
and shrubs hung heavy with tiny, 
bursting buds. The grass was broken 
in a thousand places by saucy cro- 
cuses that opened wide to greet the 
new-born day. 

Over on the south terrace the air 
was sweet with the fragrance of vio- 
lets that called to mind other days of 
joy and sorrow. Stately hyacinths 
and dignified narcissi added their 
wealth of perfume to the air. 

In a corner, but where all the world 
could see, the jonquils and daffodils 
flung their heads toward the sun and 
dared the snowflakes to spoil their 
yellow frocks. A pansy, its purple 
cloak folded close, shivered in the 
crisp breeze. 

A noisy blue-jay in the oak broke 
the stillness of the morning and over 
in the big maple Robin-Redbreast, 
wooing his mate with a tender love- 
carol, sung of the beauties of the 
garden, reminding the world that it 
was Spring and Resurrection Day. 

Jean C. Mowat. 



To Sam and Other Boys 

eENERAL KNOWLEDGE came riding to town 
Astride an arithmetic; 
He wore a high hat and a flowing gown, 
And carried a great, big stick; 
"What, ho!" he shouted, "what, ho, I say. 
Where are the girls and the boj^s? 
I'm off for a jaunt and along the way 
Are ever so many joys. 

The road is all paved with good books for blocks. 
The trees hang full of my fruit; 
I've keys that fit into all of the locks 
Of the houses — built to suit." 
But would you believe that the girls and boys 
Just turned and all ran away, 

And answered: "We don't v,ant to leave our toys; 
We'll join you some other day." 
Old General Knowledge just shook his head, 
"'Tis ever the same," said he; 
"But when that day comes I know, instead, 
They'll be running after me." 
So General Knowledge went on his way. 
And I hope if he calls you. 
You'll go right along the very same day; 
You've found a friend if you do. 

Edith Brown Kirkwood. 




69 



A Memory Page 



Madonna Mary 

OlDST look upon thy child as he lay sleeping, 
And sigh, "Too fair art thou for this world's keeping 
Too pure to be by sin beguiled ;" 
Not knowing of the wondrous life before him, 

Spotless, holy, undefiled? 
Or, did there leap into thy heart this one feeling, 

The rarest joy, while thou wert kneeling, 
Because a child was born to thee? 

Ah! surely thou did feel what all we mothers feel, — 
When the firstborn child is placed within our arms, — 

Ecstatic, rapturous bliss. 
And thou didst press the soft, sweet face against thine own, 
And didst print upon the velvet, dewy lips. 

Love's holiest, sweetest kiss. 
Ah! then did thine eyes grow dim with falling tears. 
Ah! then did thy heart beat fast with portent fears. 
Then did the hush of silence make dumb thy lips, 
And in thine inmost soul thou cried, 
"O God, Most High! Of Father of Us All! 
Make me fit guardian for Thy sacred trust." 

Josephine Turck Baker. 

The Rain 

IT IS raining here in Kansas, 
Crystal drops of hope new-born ; 
Arid fields, release your incense. 
It's in time to save the corn ! 

There's a growing-song of promise. 
Rising from the thirsty grain ; 
Reaching to the mighty markets, 
Governed by this tardy rain. 

Prayer is answered in abundance. 
Sing Te Deums to the morn ; 
It is raining here in Kansas, 
Just in time to save the corn ! 

Euretta D. Metcalf. 



Mammy 

^^;^HE color line has ne\'er been considered where 
%^V "mammy" is concerned, for her position in life is clearly 
defined, and her social position is undeniable. On terms 
of real intimacy with the best families in the town, because 
of her faithful service in "givin' rubs," she is sure of a warm 
greeting, a good meal and liberal compensation wherever she 
goes. 

Then, too, her keen sense of humor makes her a source of 
enjo3'ment to the "shut-ins" who look eagerly to her coming 
and listen with pleasure to her ideas on various topics of the 
day. 

"Her babies," as she always refers to her patrons, range in 
years from twenty to eighty, and she mothers them all with a 
real affection, entering into their joys or sorrows with an 
interest that is genuine. 

It is not at all uncommon to see "Mammy" standing com- 
placently on the corner, talking confidentially to one of the 
most prominent women of the city, waving her hand at another, 
or riding comfortably in a limousine to the home of one of 
her patrons. 

The community had become accustomed to "Mammy" as a 
widow, living happily with her family of children, so when 
she 5'ielded to the ardent wooing of Mr. Johnson — a more 
than middle-dyed "culled gentleman" — and became Mrs. John- 
son, everyone was delighted to think Mammy had found a 
home and a help-mate. 

Alas for her expectations, her hopes were rudely shattered 
within the first week! "Mistah" Johnson not only proved to 
be penniless but had a strong disinclination, amounting to pos- 
itive hatred, for anything that even resembled work. "Misery" 
in his back served as an excuse for a time, then as the trouble 
became known and people tried, to help Mammy by getting 
Mr. Johnson some work, he flatly refused to do anything more 
strenuous than appear at meals. 

" 'Help-eat' — that's what I calls him," sighed Mammy as 
she bought an extra cut of beef, and more groceries. Mistah 
Johnson grew fatter, and hungrier, and Mammy worked harder 
than ever, until finally she rebelled and locked him out. He 
calmly waited till morning on the door-step and appeared with 
a good appetite for breakfast. She tried again and didn't open 



72 



the door next time till breakfast was over. Mistah Johnson 
looked sad, but crept in and waited for dinner. 



Finally Manini} grew desperate and made it clear to Mistah 
Johnson that he must leave permanently. Then she consulted 
the "Jedge" and in time secured a divorce. 

Shortly after this as she was w^alking up the street with her 
pail of salt and bottle of oil, Mrs. Jones, one of her "babies," 
met her and called out: "Well, Mammy! where are you going 
today?" 

"Fse goin' to rub out a di-voce," answered Mammy, her 
face wreathed in smiles. 

"Rub out a divorce!" exclaimed Mrs. Jones. "How on 
earth can you do that?" 

"Easy," chuckled Mammy. "You see, I didn't have no 
money to get my di-voce from that low-down Johnson, so 
Jedge Brown he jest got it fob me, and I'se payin' fob it by 
rubbin' his wife." 

Emily Lloyd. 



j^e* 



An Ode to Louisiana 

H, my heart's in Louisiana, 

Where the sweet magnolias bloom, 
In the balmy air's Nirvana, 
And the sunshine chases gloom. 



O 



Where the mocking birds sing sweetly. 
In the moss-draped oak tree grove ; 

Melting lovers' hearts completely, 
As beneath they fondly rove. 

Here the heart is filled with gladness. 

The pulse beats high with joy, 
Content am I, for me no sadness 

Can Southland's charm destroy. 

Mary Heh 



\ Desirable Location 




CH¥A were two Johns who Hved in the countrj. They 
were grizzled and wrinkled but happy withal, and in- 
terested in each other and in things generally. 

John No. I was driv- 
ing by on his way to 
town. John No. 2 stop- 
ped him. 

"Hey, hitch yer horse 
and come along; I've got 
something to show you." 
John No. I replied, 
"Be jinks, I'd better be 
goin' on to get back be- 
fore dinner." 

"Come on, John ; come 
on. I'll hitch fer ye. Stand still, Topsy. Come on, John; 
'twon't take but a minute." 

John No. I straightened out his stiff knee carefully and 
lumbered down to the ground. 

"Hurry up, then, John. Which way?" 
"Right through the woods here." 

John No. 2 ducked his head and started through the woods, 
John No. I following at his heels. 
"Where is it, John?" 

"Straight on," said John No. 2, grown taciturn with his 
approaching triumph. 

John No. I manfully kept up the pace. 
"Are we nearly there?" 
"Pert' near." 

"How much farther is it, John?" 

Suddenly John No. 2 stopped before a low-hanging bush 
and fell on his knees, pointing and parting its branches. 
"There it is." 

"What is it?" asked John No. i, peering. 
"Turkey's nest," said John No. 2. 
John No. I looked closer. 
"I don't see any turkey's nest," he said. 
"Nice place fer one," said John No. 2. 

Edna Herron. 



Suffrage Song 

GOME, let us stand this hour, 
Women with woman's power, 
O'er all this land. 
And let the heavens ring, 
While we our freedom sing — 
Let us our best gifts bring 
To bless our land. 

Our leaders bravel}' fought; 
We love the truths they taught 

In Freedom's name. 
Shall we less nobly stand, 
Daughters of this fair land? 
Come, join us hand in hand, 

In Freedom's name. 

Oh! hear our children's call. 
Wake! hearken! lest they fall 

In Evil's way. 
We stand, alone for Right. 
Then let us show our might. 
Come, help us win the fight, 

This glorious day. 

While God we give all praise, 
The Stars and Stripes we raise — 

Our country's flag. 
Long may it wave above, 
Emblem of Truth and Love, 
No eagle, but a dove — 

Our blessed flag. 

Hattie Sinnard Pashley. 




Labor That Endures 

aMONG the world of work and workers wc so often 
hear the expression, "When I get rich I won't have to 
do this work," but never has such sentiment been re- 
corded as coming from the h'ps of a writer. To the adherent 
of Thought and Imagination, wealth would not present the 
means of an escape from labor, but shed the glow of better 
opportunity for advantages to continue and enhance it. Writing, 
to the writer, is a life work; it infuses her veins, becomes 
embedded in her soul, and literary ambition remains the same 
whether pursuing it handicapped by the demands of necessity, 
or utilizing wealth to gather gems with which to glorify it. 
It is this characteristic love of the pen which spurs its follow- 
ing on to the Heights of Fame, and those who reach it con- 
tinue as earnestly, as diligently, as when on the winding way 
to the goal, for the writer's effort is esto perpetua. 

Maybelle Strawbridge. 



ja>e 



Maxims of the Business Woman 

ffiIGHT is not right, but right is mighty. 
It is not necessary to say all we believe, but it is 
necessary to believe all we say. 

Luck is good, but pluck is better and more to be relied upon. 

Sentiment is no substitute for common sense. 

To remain unspoiled in prosperity is the test of true char- 
acter. 

To belittle oneself does not raise one in the estimation of 
others. 

We should know not only what we believe, but why. 

What you mean to do does not count. It is what you do 
that makes your record. 

It takes courage to wear old clothes and look out of date 
in order to keep out of debt. 

To speak well is good; to think well is better; to do well 

is best. 

Hattie Summerfield. 



76 



To A Sleeping Babe 

nlLY petals and angel wings, 
And all of the delicate, dainty things 
That are sweet, illusive and full of grace 
Are found in a sleeping babj^'s face. 

Eleanor L. Drew 



JW? 



Patience 

"For ye have need of patience, tfiat, after ye have done the 
will of God, ye might receive the promise." (Heb. x:36.) 

^TT^E HAVE great need, O wearj' hand, 
\ly When sunset's gold shall flood the land 

And find your daily task undone, 
While evening shadows slowly come; 
But rest is here, and rest is thine, 
It shall be light at evening time. 

Ye have great need, O weary feet, 
Whose restless fevered pulses beat 
O'er thorny path and rocky height, 
In noontide's heat, or starless night; 
But on the crystal river's shore 
Is peace and rest forever more. 

"Rest in the Lord and wait for Him." 
Though days be dark and hope be dim. 
Through martyr fires with naked feet, 
Be loyal still while heart shall beat; 
For hope and promise both are thine: 
It shall be light at evening time. 

Elizabeth A. Reed. 



77 



A Memory Page 



78 



God's Gall to Rest 

Underneath are The Everlasting Arms. — Deuterotiomy 
xxxiii, 27. 

J^s^HE Sunset's banners fade far down the West. 
%^ J Twilight and darkness and the evening star! 
O, soul of mine, heed thou God's call to rest 
Sent to thee from the star-strewn heavens afar. 

From weary heart and brain loose thou the bands 
That bind thee to thy toil while it is day; 

Thy heaven-appointed task leave in His hands 
Who holds the planets on their circling way. 

While on thine eyelids dewy pinioned night 

Soft wings shall press, the stars their paths will keep ; 

The Universe swing softly in the light 

Of Him whose eye doth slumber not nor sleep. 

Rest, sleep; entrusting to His Heart of Love 
All cares, all fears, the garish day's alarms; 

The dome of heaven thy canopy above, 
And underneath The Everlasting Arms. 

Helen Ekin Starrett. 




79 



To My Littla Folks . 

Sarf-Man From San'- Lan'! 



Words & Music 
By CAROL KELLEY BROOKE 



Lightly. 



i^ 



Confidingly. 



Way up yon'ah^fa. a 

San' - man knows et little 



w [U\yu I li li ii 



^^ 



k'^ J ^ J ^ l ^^rt 



bove de skies 
girls en' boys 



Up so fah yo'can see wid yo' eyes^- 

Nev - ah laks to put a - way dere toys^ 




(But ah wants yo' all to jes' scr - mine Et eb - ry thin'' Ah says to 

San' - inanknowset lit-tle folks need res'^ . Knows et Mamy'sg-lad w'en 




yo is so.) Dere libs 

deys un - dres> San' 

3 



a fun-ny man all by his - self, 
man tip-toes up to cab - in doahs. 




Ain' no big--gah en a dwahf or elf; Nights wen lit-tle ohilluns 

Sees how man-ys lay-in' on de floahs, Shakes a lit - tie San' fom 




Copyright, MOM XI, by F. E. Hathaway. Music Publisher Chicago.Ill 



all in bed He comesdown ere wid de soft - es' tread; Fom 

out his sacli- Ties it 8het. en den he hus - ties back To 




fLp'nu - 


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LL J 


0\ 






m H 




r? fi i 


it P j -1 


San' - 
i > 1^ 






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tl.',U- 


1 1 ^ p ^ 
— f — i — '■^'^— 


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Random Thoughts 

IN THE forgetfulness of self one may accomplish much 
by lending the helping hand, giving a kindly word or 
by the S3'mpathetic touch. Thus is the individual like 
fleecy clouds, ever drifting far apart, yet reaching many. 

Have you ever watched a falling star and almost with 
compassion exclaimed, "Poor little star, you've taken a tumble 
from your lofty sphere down into an untried world, and you 
will never shine again! Had you but been content, your bright- 
ness and usefulness would have long continued!" 

If nature has bestowed upon you a sunny disposition, a true 
loving heart, then endeavor to gain the daily stimulus of pro- 
moting happiness in the lives of others, thereby brightening and 
strengthening yourself. 

"Help one another," a grain of sand said to another grain 
just at hand. "The wind may carry you over the sea, and 
then Oh, what will become of me?" "Ah, come my sister, give 
me 5'our hand ; we'U build a mountain and there we'll stand." 

Ella L. Plane. 



The Book and the Home 

QOTHING is so homeless as a bookless house, unless it 
be a house whose books betray a vulgar and narrow 
conception of life. A man's books form an average 
portrait of himself. Without books the merchant's palace 
becomes but a prison, "the trail of the upholsterer over it all," 
while a small library, well selected, may, like Aladdin's lamp, 
turn the abode of poverty into a princely home. 

It is a sweet remembrance, that of a quiet old farm-house, 
where a tired mother after a hard day's work gathered her 
seven children about her, her knitting-needles keeping time to 
the measures of the verses read by one of the group from a 
great poet. The poetry which she knit into the lives of her 
boys has outlasted all the stockings, and crowned her memory 
with a halo of poetic recollections. 

The boy whose mother "would not go to bed until she 
had finished reading Pepacton" with him is more to be envied 
with his poor jacket than the elegant lad whose mother, with 

82 



no time to read, makes time to consult the latest fashion plates 
that he may be handsomely attired. 

An uneducated working-man, deploring his lack of early 
advantages, was in the habit of taking his little son on his lap 
at night to hear his lessons. He followed the boy through all 
of his high school work, and is today an educated man through 
giving the child continued sympathy in his studies. 

Mary E. Burt. 



a>e 



The Tryst 

nOVE, my Love, the sunset splendor 
Left the world an hour ago; 
The maiden moon, all shy and slender, 
Swooning in the fervid glow. 
'Neath curtains drawn, the earth is listing 

The wooing sibilants of the sea ; 
O'er land and wave, to keep our trysting, 
Your constant spirit speeds to me. 

Love, my Love ! weird fancies thronging. 

As the south winds crisp the sea; 
Joy, misgiving, hope and longing. 

Have their minor tone for me. 
Yours may be God's calm forever, 

Safe from touch or jar of Fate, 
Far as star-sown depths can sever 

From me, who expect and wait. 

Love, my Love! in purple drifting, 

Summer dusk and valley fills; 
To the bending skies uplifting 

Reverent brows, rise altared hills. 
By the meaning hush of even. 

By the mirrored deep in deep, 
By your bourn in earth or heaven, 

I know our holy tryst you keep! 

Marion Harland. 



& 



Memory 

XISTENCE has given us a few sublime fabricators like 
Memory, Poetry and Dr. Cook. They are inaccurate 
as art and aged pianolas. But we are slaves to their 
untrustworthiness and find entertainment in their moonshine. 

Age accumulates a peculiar fondness for the mental relics 
that are classified by the psychologists under the name of Mem- 
ory. Even before one is thirty, Memory becomes a sentimental 
companion with some other function than those of spelling 
correctly, hoarding telephone numbers and keeping statistics on 
the birth rate in France. 

It begins to give us those beatific revivals of the past such 
as are embodied in "The Old Swimmin' Hole," "I Dreamt 
I Dwelt in Marble Halls," and "The Old Oaken Bucket." It 
systematically lies to us about our experiences. Its unwritten 
fiction is as pious a fraud as Chambers' tales of reality. 

Besides winning spelling bees and making inaccurate his- 
tories. Memory has to its credit a few songs in minor keys, 
innumerable painful-looking mausoleums and the correct ages 
of a few of our women friends. 

That the use of Memory means retrogression is proven by 
graduation orations, the drama and political speeches. 

Each time one uses his Memory he steps into the past. It 
is a waste of time. To browse around in the mental debris 
of a fellow traveler or to learn ancient history are, therefore, 
putting blocks in the path of progress. 

The Moral — Forget it! 

Hetty F. Cattell. 

A Few Thoughts 

©HERE is but little unselfish generosity in the world. 
The saloonkeeper who gives pretzels with his beer, 
knows the value of salt. 
Woman's innocent determination to keep nothing from her 
husband has resulted only in a reputation for talkativeness. 

Some silent people are like country pumps, you can get 
enough out of them if you keep them well primed. 

A great writer has said : "Woman is the greatest work of 

the Divine Author and every man should own one copy." But 

this is no excuse for some men trying to own a whole library. 

It is foolish to regret that a woman wastes affection on a 

dog; it is probably no more than a fair valuation. 

Mary E. Rae. 



The Mutability of Man 

>y^HEN dainty Spring, with sandaled feet, 
\|y Comes tripping forth with promise sweet 
Of sunshine, flowers and garlands fair, 
My heart's enmeshed in golden hair, 
I sing of love to eyes of blue. 
No other eyes seem half so true. 

When Summer's scorching breath I feel 
Before another shrine I kneel. 
O, sensuous lips and nutbrown hair, 
Can other loves with yours compare? 
From thee and love I ne'er would stray, 
O, soulful eyes of shadowy grey. 

When Autumn, saucy, smiling flirt. 
In russet gown o'er crimson skirt. 
Holds high the brimming goblet filled 
With dewy nectar, heaven distilled; 
O, eyes of brown, I pledge to thee, 
My heart from thine will ne'er be free. 

When Winter, radiant, brilliant sprite. 
Appears in jewelled robes of white. 
My heart's entangled in the net 
Of waving, curling locks of jet. 
O, eyes of black, thou'rt all to me; 
My heaven on earth is found in thee. 

Virginia Peyton Campbell. 



My Greed 



I BELIEVE that all beauty is a gift from God, and that 
it is given to all women. 
I believe that every woman should be beautiful from 
the cradle to the grave. 

I believe that a beautiful physique must contain a broad 
mind and a sweet spirit of charity. 

I believe that beauty of form and feature can be cultivated 
in every woman until she can be made to "blossom like the 
rose." 

I believe in the sane normal woman who realizes that to 
live life at its fullest, she must be beautiful, physically, men- 
tally and spiritually. 

I believe that the earnest intelligent women of all ages will 
subscribe to this creed, for as education and culture grow, into 
the heart of every woman must come a greater desire for the 
sood, the true, and the beautiful. 

Lillian Russell. 



8s 



Daybreak 

OAY'S approaching from the east, 
Heralded by bird and beast, 

Seen in lighter, brighter sunbeams climbing up the 
golden way. 
Lingers in this crimson quiet. 
Hint of night's great grief to die at 
Just the hour when comes the riot 
Of the breaking of the day. 

Higher mounts the sun o'er earth, 

Dew besprinkled clods give birth 

To the breaking, waking seed pods, lifting up a tender blade, 

Promise of the harvest coming; 

Flow'ring stem with bees a-humming. 

Morning's million fingers strumming 

Music, while the shadows fade. 

Cities wake at daybreak's call. 

Slowly lifts the night mist's pall. 

Eager workers, shirkers, failures, filling up the broad highway ; 

Going at the call of duty 

Over paths dull, hard and sooty, 

With the God-created beauty 

Of the breaking of the day. 

Salena Sheets Martin. 




86 




TT^a bs able In iont my ttf tgl|bor 
w mh mint mtm^ ub m^Biit 

— lr«tl|fnUg, uiljoUa aitb 

mtaelg; 



r?ro bf lieu? tl|f bf at attft forget 
^ tl|e tunrat: 



/|T0 be lyntteat in my iealtttga 
w mtietljer mttly rogue or miae 



matt: 



A 



/TTo keep ioitl|m ttiy l|eart an 
w tlifal ml|irl| I|nman nature 
rannot aliatter; 

t\h to be ra^table of lowing 
to tlje enJi of tl?e rlyapter, 
for lone ia life. 

jFrancra Armetrong Waaba 



87 



A Memory- Page 



The Master Painter 

eOD loves the beauty he creates, there he 
Foam lilled wastes of blue, that clasp the land, 
Caress the rocks, or mingle with the sand, 
Shot through with rainbow colors from the sky: 
Rivers that flash reflected woodlands by. 
Deep, silent pools, where sweet star angels stand. 
Imaged through dewy nights, a shining band: 
Pearl mountain crowns, that only meet His eye. 
Forests of bloom, and shade, man never sees, 
Valleys that lapse in sunlight, and in song. 
Soft moonlit spaces, melting into air, 
Gleaming of dawns and sunsets : all of these 
He notes as suns and planets spin along. 
And tints with love, His landscapes everywhere. 

Emma Playter Seabury, 



Si>e 



A Year 

NE more thread in the woof of Time, 
Is woven up and nether. 
Into the nap to overlap 
The warp years tie together. 



O 



Each day the tint of deeds and thoughts 

Imprinted grave or gaily. 
This spotless thread, while heart and head 

Its pattern fashioned daily. 

As the shuttle speeds its winding course 

In between the warp of da5's, 
Each tint or shade position made 

To follow the pattern's ways. 

Thus weaves and reels each full long year : 

Thus builds of weal and of woe : 
With throbbing heart that silent part 

Which ennobles the warp below. 

Florence King. 



89 



The Children 

J^i^HE great Plinj- once said: "Give me the first seven 
^^^ years of a child's h'fe and you may have the rest, for 
he is safe." 

This is my appeal: the first seven years; give them a chance 
— train their muscles, train their sense of rhythm, train their 
breathing. Give them a harmony, give them health — and 
they will attain purity and happiness. 

John, aged seven, lying on a couch, eyes crossed and legs 
shriveled, laughs through his tears as Charles, aged seven, 
stands on his head and turns cartwheels for John's amusement. 

John has every care. Taught to think only of his chances 
of being hurt or harmed, through fear cut off from living free. 

Charles is alive, having been kept steadily at work fitting 
himself to fight off the one great bugbear of life — Fear. 

Fear rules the world — Fear and Love. 

Therefore, I make this plea for the children — give them 
a chance, until Fear takes to its heels and runs away! Better 
a cartwheel turned than the cultivated culture pot for the 
"White Plague." Better the desire to fight the fence-posts 
with a \\ooden sword than cross eyes and bandy-legs! 

Jean Van Vlissingen. 



<s>e 



On Roget's Thesaurus 

ON MY desk a Thesaurus lies, old, worn and some- 
what faded. My fondness for it only vies with 
my respect for all its wise arrangement. The 
words fanfaronnade and foe are only two of many. With- 
out it I would scarcely know the synonym of apropos or 
begum. Oh! Dr. Roget, you have saved me many times 
from trouble. When words refused to come you gave 
me respite and supplied the grave omission. To you my 
tuneless voice I raise — 'tis pity 'twere no better — in willing 
songs of heartfelt praise for each elusive word that stays 
within it. 

Lavon Cheney. 



Armenian Legends 

HRMENIA is naturally rich in early legends, the most 
conspicuous and interesting of which are the bird legends, 
presumably because the birds of Armenia are countless 
in number and variety, from the vulture to the wren. An old 
belief still survives in Armenia that the souls of the blessed dead 
fly down from heaven in the shape of beautiful birds, and 
perching on the branches of trees look fondly upon their dear 
ones as they pass beneath. When in the woods, if a peasant 
sees birds fluttering about over his head, he will on no account 
molest them, but will say to his child, "That is the spirit of 
your dear mother," or "That is your dear little brother," as 
the case may be. "Be a good child or it will fly away and 
never again look at you with its sweet little eyes." 

ONCE upon a time, when all geese were wild and free, 
one goose said to another, on the eve of a journey : 
"Mind you are ready, my friend, for — please God, 
I set out tomorrow morning." 

"And so will I, whether it pleases God or not," was the 
irreverent reply. 

The next morning both geese were up at daybreak. The 
religious goose spread his wings and soared lightly toward the 
distant land, but lo! when the impious goose tried to do like- 
wise, he flapped and flapped but could not stir an inch from 
the ground. A strolling countryman took possession of him 
and thus it came about that this irreverent goose and his children 
fell forever into slavery. 

Katherine Wallace Davis 




Anecdotes 

H WOMAN went to a department store to select a 
present. 

There were about ten people at the book counter, and 
only one clerk. 

Hastily running her hand over the neatly arranged books, 
she asked, "Is Oliver Twist here?" 

"What department does he work in?" was the rejoinder. 

A country woman recently went into court for the first 
time. She came home greatly excited. 

"Do you know," she said, "the way people are fighting now- 
adays is something terrible? Why, friend is fighting against 
friend, and brother against brother. There was the case of 
Adam against Adam, Brown against Brown, and Jones against 
Jones. Isn't it awful? It's as bad as the Civil War." 

Mary H. Henson. 

After the Programme 

The congratulation fiend opens the exhaust. 

GAN you buy the Marian Bowlan Monologues at the 
Methodist Book Store? 

How^ old were you when you began to elocute? 
Reel-y? 

Has anybody else composed monologues besides j'ourself 
and Browning? (Note the order.) 

Are you going into vaudeville? You don't? 
Do you look in a mirror when you rehearse those facial 
expressions? 

Don't you just die laughing while you're practising? 
Why don't j^ou do something sad? You think you do? 
Is "Minnie at the Movies" true? 

Could one ever get another costume like your Popular 
Music Counter Girl's? Not for money? 

Don't you think you'll ever go in for tragic acting like 
Marie Dressler's? 

(Business of fainting on the witness stand.) 

Marian Bowlan. 



92 



A Sylvan Tragedy 

CHAT fool doctor, he says, "Get away from the noise of 
the city, Tim, or you'll be a dead man in a month. 
Sleep in the woods," says he, "with the sky for a roof 
and the ground for a bed and your sickness '11 fall off like the 
leaves from a tree." 

So I goes, and at dark I fixes my bed under the trees and 
the sky and mosquito netting. I no sooner gets settled than 
someone near yells, "Katie did, she did!" and another feller 
throws back, "Katie didn't, she didn't!" 

I didn't give a hang whether Katie did or didn't, but them 
two keeps it up till a feller off a bit calls, "Who-oo, who-oo?" 
and somebody answers, "Bob-White! Bob-White!" 

Well, I goes to the woods for quiet and have to listen to 
Katie and Bob White yelling their business out in the middle 
of the night! 

Pretty soon the beggars begins again, "Katie did, she did!" 
and, "Katie didn't, she didn't!" and then a soft voice sings, 
"Coo-oo, coo-oo!" making fun of them, and another one cries 
sharp: "Whip poor Will, Whip poor Will!" What they wants 
to whip poor Will for when Bob White is up to tricks is more 
than I can see. 

Then the tattle tale begins on Katie again, "Katie did, she 
did!" and the other objecting, says, "Katie didn't, she didn't!" 
and the feller that wants to know asks, "Who-oo, who-oo?" and 
if you'll believe it, the answer this time comes, "Bob-o-Link, 
Bob-o-Link!" Another feller entirely, by jiggers! 

Then, of a sudden, a new voice says solemn like, "Kill- 
deer, kill-deer," and I hears cry after cry like a hurt cat and 
I'm certain Bob White or Bob O. Link killed "Dear" on ac- 
count of Katie. 

I starts running and never stops till I hears the purring of 
the elevated. City noises ain't so bad ! 

No, I didn't die like the doctor says. I goes fishing on the 

pier every day for two weeks, and my sickness falls off like the 

scales from a fish. 

Maude Swalm Evans. 



The Homeless Scribbles 

A SCENARIO 
Synopsis: 

The Scribbles were a family of two hundred girls. A sad 
thing about this family was they had no home. To remain 
united they met occasionally in a cold pillared hotel with a 
hushed fountain and managed to remember each other's name 
and age. They longed for a home of their own with an open 
fireplace to dream beside in winter, and trees and mignonette 
to waft sweet breezes and fragrance in summer, while true 
sisterly ties waxed closer around the low tea tables on 
the veranda. The desire for home consumed them and one 
day they conceived a brilliant idea — they would write a 
book, publish it, rake up the proceeds and buy a home. 
Inspired, palpitating, they went to work. The book was 
finished, the publisher's obsequies over, and the covers of 
the Scribbles' struggles throbbed over its scintillating gems. 
It was a success! The first edition melted away and the 
sisters stayed up nights to count their money. Real estate 
men with automobiles filled with radiant Scribbles scurried 
through the suburbs, until at last the Spot Perfection was 
found where dreams of the fireplace, mignonette and veranda 
were to be realized. The Scribbles had a home at last — 
and lived there happy ever after. 

Scene i. 

Fountain room of Hotel. The Scribble Sisters, homeless, 
despondent. Brilliant Sister Ethel trying to cheer them. 

Scene 2. 

Cheerless room. Meeting of the Scribble Sisters. An idea 
strikes them. They decide to write a book and use the 
proceeds for a home. _A11 inspired, hopeful. 

Scene j. 

Same cheerless room. Scribble Sisters counting huge piles 
of money. Copy of book, a brilliant success, on table. All 
happy, excited. 

Scene 4. 

New Home of the Scribbles. Suburbs. Interior. Large 
living rooms, open fire, small Scribble at piano, others dan- 
cing, some sipping tea, some lounging in easy chairs, laugh- 
ing, chatting. All deliriously happy. 

The End. 

Roselle Dean. 



94 



Roster 

Page 

Ahrens, Mary A., contributor . . . . i6 

Baker, Josephine Turck, author, editor . . .71 

Ballard, Anna, reporter, lecturer .... 18 

Barnes, Julia Katherine, contributor . . . .64 

Bingham, Helena, poet, composer .... 67 

Blair, Ophelia Lav.rence, editor, publisher, poet . . 43 

Bo)'lan, Grace Duffie, author, contributor . . , 50 

Bond, Carrie Jacobs, song writer, publisher . . 24 

Bowlan, Marian, monologist, short story writer . . 92 

Brooke, Carol Kelly, composer and song writer . . 80 

Bryant, Anna Groff, author, contributor, lecturer . 65 

Burt, Mary E., editor 82 

Campbell, Virginia Peyton, poet, contributor . . 85 

Carver, Sadie E., editor . . . . . .28 

Cattell, Hetty F., reporter, special writer ... 84 

Cheney, Lavon, author, contributor . . . .90 

Clark, Myrtle Dean, short story writer, poet . . 17 

Colson, Ethel JNI., editor, fiction and verse writer . .15 

Davis, Katherine Wallace, contributor . . . 91 

Dean, Roselle M., scenario writer, contributor . . 94 

DeBey, Cornelia, M. D., contributor ... 36 

Donnelly, Antoinette (Doris Blake), editor, contributor . 48 

Drew% Eleanor L., editor, composer ... 77 

Eaton, Page Waller, newspaper, magazine writer . 10 

Evans, Maude Swalm, contributor • • • • 93 

Fishback, Anna D., author and special writer . . 56 

Frackleton, Susan S., author, artist .... 22 

Frank, Florence Kiper, author, poet, playwright . . 62 

Gary, Anstiss Curtis, poet, author .... 39 

Gebhardt, Florence Adams, author, special writer . 46 

Gibson, Idah McGlone, editor, fiction writer . . 21 

Gilmer, Dorothy Dix, editor, author . . . .12 

Hadley, Grace T., editor . . . . . 51 

Haynie, Ella R. Thomas, special writer . -58 

Helm, Mary, editor, special writer .... 73 

Henson, Mary, author, contributor . . . -92 

Herron, Edna, contributor, short story writer . . 74 

Higgins, Violet Moore, artist, contributor, poet . . 41 

Holbrook, Florence, poet, author . . . . .19 

Holmer, Grace Scofield, poet, author . . . -49 

Huling, Caroline A., editor, author, publisher . . 10 

Hunter, Agnes Potter McGee, editor, contributor . 27 

Inman, Addie Farrar, editor, author, reporter . . 56 
Jameson, Helen FoUett (Mme. Qui Vive), special writer 29 

Jeffery, Isadore Gilbert, poet . . .. 55 

Kellogg, Helen Reynolds, M. D., editor, contributor . 26 

Kerfoot, Ruth, reporter, contributor . -42 

King, Florence, special writer .... 89 



Kleen, Nellie, fashion artist 



Frontispiece 



95 



Roster — Continued 



Kirkwood, Edith Urovvne, editor, special writer 

Koch, Caroline (Caroline Coe), contributor 

Leavens, Pauline, contributor 

Manson, Agnes Grant (Betty Barlow), contributor 

Martin, Salena Sheets, poet, contributor 

Maurer, Ruth J. (Emily Lloyd), contributor, autho 

iMcCauley, Lena May, art and music editor . 

Metcalf, Euretta D., contributor 

Meyer, Rose D., editor, contributor 

Monroe, Harriet, editor, poet . 

Moore, Lillian Russell, contributor 

Moses, Sallie M., editor .... 

Mowat, Jean C, correspondent, contributor 

Newell, Mary O'Connor, editor .... 

Nolan, ElizaJjeth Curtiss, editor, contributor . 

O'Donnell, Mary Eleanor, editor, author 

Oliver, Maude L G., artist, art critic 

Palmer, Mate, editor 

Parker, Mary Moncure, writer of monoloj^nies, plays 

Pashley, Hattie Sinnard, contributor 

Pease, Leonora, author .... 

Perry, Carlotta, poet, contributor . 

Plane, Ella L., special v^riter 

Porter, Gene Stratton, author 

Potter, Frances Squire, author . 

Porter, Genevieve Cooney, poet, author 

Powell, Mary Badollet, editor, correspondent 

Prendergast, Amelia M., textbook editor 

Rae, Mary E., contributor, correspondent 

Read, Ada B., contributor, poet 

Reed, Elizabeth A., editor, special writer 

Reed, Myrtle, author, poet 

Robertson, Charlotte Cecilia, poet, contributor 

Seabury, Emma Playter, poet, contributor 

Senour, Caro, author, composer, playwright . 

Smith, Julia Holmes, M. D., special writer, editor 

Snyder, Estelle Ryan, author, publisher 

Squire, Belle, contributor, author . 

Starrett, Helen Ekin, author, essayist 

Stilwell, Laura Jean Libbey, author, editor 

Strawbridge, Maybelle, contributor 

Summerfield, Hattie, contributor, correspondent 

Terhune, Marion Harland, author, editor 

Thompson, Florence Sevier, contributor 

Van Vlissingen, Jean, editor, contributor 

Waite, Louise R., author, composer 

Woods, Frances Armstrong, editor, publisher, composer 

Wynne, Heloise, contributor .... 



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